Darkness Within
by silvereyedbitch
Summary: Takes place AFTER my fanfic "Not Even That" so you should read that one prior to this. Damien decides to ask about Tarrant's mortal past. Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These shall apply to all subsequent chapters, so they may not be present in each chapter.)
1. Darkness Within

Summary: Set to be a few days _after_ my fanfic "**Not Even That**." So that fanfic should be read prior to this one. I'll be breaking this up into chapters because I would anticipate it to be a bit long. That depends on my plot bunnies, though. They seem to die off suddenly at times. Here, a few days after Damien has discovered that Tarrant is alive again through a kind of intervention performed by Karril, he decides to ask about Tarrant's mortal past, seeking to understand more about this man whom he has fallen in love with. What must occur for a human soul to become so dark as the Hunter's own? I've touched on this in the past with a couple of my other stories, but wanted to attempt a deeper dig with this one.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Darkness Within**

Lying beside each other in bed one morning, fingers intertwined, Damien decided to broach a topic that had been swirling around his thoughts for a while now. He tilted his head to face the other man. "Gerald, you know as much about me as anyone, but I know so little about your own past. Are you afraid you'll scare me off? Is it so big a secret, or can you maybe divulge a little?" he asked this in a light tone, trying to make it seem inconspicuous. Morning light filtered through the curtains, lending a glowing quality to the illumination. The other lay still and quiet for a moment before answering, "There is nothing to tell that you would want to hear." Of course, this was hardly a satisfactory answer for the ex-priest, and so he pushed, "No really. I know hardly anything at all, and I feel like I should." This persistence was received with an unreadable expression by the adept who slowly began disengaging his fingers from Damien's. His expression shifted several times, through concentration, to consideration, to thoughtfulness, and finally, to a frustrated acceptance.

"My past? You ask a loaded question, Vryce. And though I know _why_ you ask, it makes the answering no simpler. You seek justification of why I am who I am. You want to explain away my murderous doings with tales of a forgotten childhood that are enveloped in horror. And, oh, yes, there were horrors enough for any man's spiritual degradation to begin under. But I do not believe that our past controls us this way. Defines us; Yes. Leads us; Yes. But we all make our own choices, every second of every day. And to say now that I regret those things I have done would be grossly untrue to myself. And to you. And I do not wish to begin this chapter in our relationship with lies. As I have previously stated, I am doing things differently this time around. And I will allow no thing as petty as a simple lie to undermine what we have found here… And so you shall know all of it."

The adept looked away from Damien and towards the ceiling. Damien remained voiceless. He had never thought his question would actually lead somewhere. He had only posed it in half jest, thinking perhaps to coax a bit of history out of the other man. And, too, he was ashamed to admit, Tarrant was right in his assessment of the reasoning behind this question. Damien had found himself in the last few days trying to rationalize how this man he had fallen in love with could have been residing in so dark a place for so long. It made him feel guilty having such a love for a person who had caused so much evil in the world. How much easier it would be to explain some of that atrocity with a horrifying past that had led to it! And so, he waited in tight anticipation for the next piece of what Tarrant would say.

Tarrant's voice was low and even when he next spoke, as though he was attempting to remain neutral where his past was concerned. "Words do no service in this instance. They are meaningless, and it is impossible to convey to you the depth of my experience with paltry tools such as they. I will seek other means at my disposal then, to grant you your answers." The adept finished speaking as he turned his head toward Damien. "I will make you dream again, Damien. Nightmares no longer…at least, these will be of a different sort." Damien felt a chill run through him at the thought of what he might witness in one of these induced dreams. _But this is what I wanted, right?_ he asked himself, saying aloud, "Yeah, sure. Okay. What do I need to do?"

Tarrant sat up and turned to face Damien on the bed. "Just lie back as you are. Close your eyes." And then, with a slightly dark-humored chuckle, the adept whispered, "Trust me." At that, Damien smirked but obeyed by making himself comfortable and doing as asked. "Now, clear your mind, and you will feel me seeking permission to enter your thoughts." Damien relaxed and felt a hand placed lightly on his chest over his heart. Then, he felt a soft nudging at the edges of his awareness, and he opened himself up to it, feeling it slither in and around his brain like a cold rain. His body shivered outwardly, and Tarrant noticed. "Mm, you make me feel so very dirty, my priest, that my touch should arouse such reactions in you." And Damien sat up, grabbing the hand on his chest, dismay evident upon his face. "Never say that. _Never_, Gerald. It's different is all. I'm not used to it." Tarrant stared him down with a frozen expression, "I am evil, Vryce. Never doubt that. Do not let love blind you as to my nature. That will only end very badly for the both of us."

Damien was struck dumb. He had thought…well, what _had_ he thought? That the Hunter would go all soft and fluffy just because of this thing between them? Wow. How stupid he felt now. And how terrified. And Tarrant saw it. _Damn it, he notices everything_. "I see that you are now finally reaching an understanding of what exactly it is I am speaking of. No. Do not deny it. Do not tell me that it is 'different' or whatever else other excuse you find. I have built my life and world on others' terror and death, Vryce. This is not some simple love story wherein we both live happily, and easily, ever after. This is a true problem, and one I had expected would come up sooner. Expected, but hoped otherwise. For what are we to do at this crossroads?" He paused momentarily in his speech, seeming reticent. "I have no answers for this. But I can at least grant you the answer to your inquiry of my past. It may serve to at least blunt the force of this new realization that has come upon you." And Damien nodded dumbly, the happiness of the last few days coming to ashes in his heart as he began to consider the ramifications of what the adept was admitting to him.

Tarrant leaned forward and softly kissed Damien, letting his mouth linger against the ex-priest's. Pulling back with some difficulty, he gazed sadly into Damien's eyes, seeing the consternation and indecision growing there. "I am so sorry, Vryce. I can see I have hurt you deeply with this, and I do not mean to. We will find a way. Try not to think overly much on it for now. Just lie back, and listen to my voice," the adept said as he placed his fingertips in the center of the big warrior's chest and pushed him back down to the bed. "I am going to show you things I have never shown another living being, not even Karril, though I believe he has deduced much from my thoughts and reminiscences. I trust you will understand the gravity of this exchange." Damien nodded his acceptance and closed his eyes again, feeling keenly the new pain in his heart. Tarrant repeated the ritual again, hand placed over Damien's heart, and his spirit seeking entrance. The ex-priest suppressed the shiver this time, but he knew before he did it that Tarrant had still noticed its beginning anyway. _Damn_. He cleared his thoughts for now, determined to participate fully in this experiential Sharing. And at first, he thought maybe he had failed, until suddenly he felt his spirit pulled free of its physical shell, and he was swept away on a tide of memory too potent to combat. Anger and despair, sadness and terror, and many other primal emotions overrode his senses as he drifted away into the gloom of Gerald Tarrant's mortal lifetime.

E/N: Okay, is anyone out there even interested in reading further? As I noted before. I have touched on Tarrant's past in a couple of my other fanfics, but this one is going to be devoted solely to that. So I'm just wondering if that is a topic of interest to anyone but myself before I go and compose this sucker.


	2. Cold

Summary: Gerald has begun to allow Damien to glimpse his past through use of dreams. It begins with Gerald at about seven years old. I have made his eldest brother, Simon, 15 yrs old. And so, you can tell their approximate ages by subtracting one year from 15 for each name prior to the one you are looking at here: Simon, Roderick, Berndt, Kalen, Jasul, Avery, Timony, and Cason; with Cason ending up being about 8 yrs old.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Cold**

A solitary drop of water fell from the slowly darkening sky to land upon the soft brown hair of a young boy of perhaps six or seven summers. Its impact caused him to glance upwards in a quick motion. Rain. The patterns of fae across the land confirmed it to his adept's eyes. This particular act of nature meant various things to different people. Farmers practically worshipped it. Peasants were displeased with having to trudge along through muddy lanes during it. The well-off paid it no real mind while locked behind their secure doors sipping afternoon tea. But for some, it meant a return to reality. And that reality was very much layered and flavored with fear.

His beleaguered wooden toys forgotten on the dirt underneath the tree, the boy hugged himself tightly, anticipating the subsequent run to get back into the keep before the downpour. It was early Fall, with winter's chill almost in the air. The weather was comfortably cool during the days and chilly at night. Rain, however, could bring about a shift in temperature that was staggering in these parts. Not to mention that with the deepening clouds, so came the early onset of night, which allowed the dark fae access to the surface of the planet. He watched the play of earth fae across the ground for another few moments, jealous of the seeming freedom it displayed. And then he grasped control of his thoughts once more. Clear the mind of the filth. Fae-sight and adeptitude were at best frowned upon, and at worst…well, worse. And so the boy covered his toys with a rigged camouflage brush-cover he had devised months ago that hid his meager playthings from saboteurs and began a half trot back to his home. Back to them. And he thought as he moved that he would like nothing better than to be running in the opposite direction.

He couldn't remember when exactly his family had stopped caring for him, having only vague recollections of safety and being happy at some distant point in the past. He couldn't remember even if there had been some sudden turning point or if it had been gradual in nature. He had one brilliant memory of his mother smiling down at him as he was being tucked into bed. She had touched his hair, so softly, so gentle. He would give anything to have that feeling back, to have more of just those memories even. But it wasn't to be. As the youngest of eight sons, he had little power within his household. Initially, he had been doted upon, of that he was sure. But then, they began to pull away from him. And at first he was unable to discern why or even if he was simply imagining things. As he was maturing mentally, though, he was able to discern that there were actual differences between his brothers and he. And he had begun to suspect these as the initial root of the issue.

All seven of Neocount Harrod Tarrant's other sons reflected the qualities of character that he most valued in the male gender: strength, violence, and just a dash of cruelty. If another slighted you, then you simply physically beat him until what was his was yours, or until the other died. It all led to the same conclusion for Harrod: supremacy of the Tarrant line. Nothing but total submission of one's enemies would do for him. And so his sons reflected back at him those very qualities, and very frequently they injured one another seeking favor with their father. Every last one of them was large for the age group he belonged to and put that to good use to gain what victories there were to be had in youth at the expense of the other town children, especially those belonging to lower castes of life. Simon, the eldest of them at 15, ruled the siblings with an iron fist. The others, in order of their age, Roderick, Berndt, Kalen, Jasul, Avery, Timony, and Cason, created a band of malice to be reckoned with.

And when Gerald had gazed into a mirror one morning, he had noticed how delicate seeming his features were shaping out. His mother's features upon a male countenance, her piercing gray eyes gazing out from over an aristocratic nose that drew the eye to a slim jawline. Long limbed and gangly, he had none of her innate grace. Yet. That would come with time and maturity. And as he put those long legs to use now, he thought of how much he hated his thin frame; despised his weakness. But how was he to ever gain any bulk when the majority of his meals had to be taken in the company of such brutes as his siblings who found no end of entertainment causing his sustenance to disappear? Even attempting to sneak away from the dining hall early with a bit of food stashed under his tunic would always fail miserably. It was as though they had another sense when it came to his whereabouts. Inevitably, one would be waiting to intercept while the others followed. And they would beat him until he gave up whatever he had taken. They would beat him anyway, but giving up the food usually earned him a shorter torment. He had found that his father would only make things worse when told of these banditries. "A man should be able to defend what it is his, boy. A beating is likely just the thing you need to knock those ridiculous girl's looks out of you." And so he had tried his mother.

His mother. Lady Argenine Tarrant, Neocountess of Merentha, who cared nothing for her pretty little boy who served only to spotlight how her own beauty was in the last throws of its dying youth. At a mere 32 years of age, she had born eight sons for the Neocount; and though she recovered from each birth with remarkable results, her body had suffered much through those repetitious enlargements. She saw now that her eyes no longer held a sparkle within them, and shadows darkened their recesses. Her waist was not large, but it was certainly far from the dainty maid she had once been. Breasts were kept in their high place by corsets and silk and by no natural gifts of her own. Her skin was no longer luminous but a slight sallow color. She knew Harrod took mistresses who were closer to his preferred body type, which she was no longer possessed of. She chose to ignore this and lost herself in her gossiping games of intrigue with the other women of court and traveled there often so as not to have to suffer the embarrassment of her husband's dalliances.

Gerald had approached her once, only once, when he was so hungry he couldn't stand it any longer. She had been in her sitting room with her friends drinking tea and enjoying cookies and biscuits. He respectfully waited to be acknowledged, and when he did get noticed, it was by Lady Traint who said, "What have we here? Oh, Argenine, look at your gorgeous little son! He looks just as you used to, so beautiful and slender. And that hair, so shiny and with such a wave to it!" The other women had tittered and agreed, making equally complimentary remarks on the youthful beauty, and motherly resemblance, of this boy before them. And his mother had turned to him with a strange look in her eye. She stood and approached him at the edge of the carpeted space, then took him by the shoulder and walked him through to the adjacent room. As they passed the doorway, and she turned to close the doors, he began to cry, saying quickly, "I'm sorry to interrupt your tea, mother, but I'm so hungry. I haven't had dinner twice now, and this morning Simon gave my eggs to the dogs. I saw you in here and thought maybe I could have some of your cookies. Please mother, only a few?" He barely got out the last words as her hand came whipping around from out of nowhere. And then he was on the floor with a small amount of blood on his face from where her ring cut his cheek. He stared in horror at her. She had never hit him before, and the look in her eyes was a terrible thing. "Don't you ever come near my friends again, do you hear me? They are never to see your face!" she yelled as she came closer, grabbing his shoulder, "Do you understand? You are _nothing_! You are ugly filth, and they do not need to be soiled by your _adept's_ presence!" In a world of frozen ideals, Gerald barely managed to get out a whispered, "Yes, mother," before she shoved him back to the floor and whirled around to go back to her tea and friends.

Gerald had lain there for a minute, too terrified to leave, until his empty belly once again reminded him of why he had come there in the first place. Feeling even more dejected than he had previously thought possible, he took his grief outside, walking the grounds of the keep in search of an idea that might bring him some luck. And when he passed the huge rubbish bin outside of the kitchens, he paused. Looking from side to side, he saw no one. And so he climbed over the top, and with a sickening feeling, he began to move things around in a pathetic effort at foraging. And as his digging resulted in a part of a sandwich heel, he choked down a sob at how happy the sight of that almost-clean bread made him.

Shaking his head at the memory of his slow descent into wealthy poverty, Gerald picked up speed. More drops pattered around him. He could see the keep lights just up ahead. He changed his trajectory, aiming for the side doors, knowing full well his brothers would have noticed his absence and would be looking out for him. He reached the side doors and slowed. Looking off to the east, he noticed that the large front double doors had been drawn closed already in anticipation of the coming storm. He had made it back just in time. The chill wind was picking up, and the droplets were coming faster now. He hooked his hand under the latch and pushed in, almost running into Berndt, one of his nastier brothers. He gasped as he realized his dilemma, and before he could say anything, Berndt grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back outside. "Look, the dog wants in from the storm. Well, sorry, boy, you've been a bad doggy lately, so you'll just have to stay out here," Berndt was saying as he dragged Gerald along the ground and around a line of fencing.

Berndt stopped at a chicken coop that ran alongside one of the entrances for servant-folk of the kitchen staff. "Maybe you'd like to stay in here, boy? Yeah, I think you would. The accommodations suit you." And Gerald found himself heaved through the door. He didn't yell or fight back. He no longer did those things. No one cared, and it only gave those idiots more entertainment. He watched as Berndt twisted some wire around the lock for the coop, which Gerald would only just be able to reach, but only by putting his arm through a hole in the coop wall that would scrape the skin off his arm in the process. His brother smiled wickedly through the slats at him, "Now, if you're a good doggie, I'll come and let you out in the morning okay?" he laughed as he trotted off. Gerald stared after him with an intense hatred that only children may know.

More rain began to fall, and the boy shivered. At least within the keep grounds there was little chance of any demonlings taking form. Looking around himself, he saw the chickens had all climbed to one end of the roost. The spot where he had landed appeared to be where the majority of their offal had pooled. He was covered head to toe with it. He chose the one spot with a partially cleared dirt space and laid down, feeling thoroughly sorry for his predicament. And as the rain began to fall in earnest, and the cold crept within his soul, he thought that at least he would be clean when they found him in the morning. If he still lived. And he found that this scenario did not bother him as it used to. Death. What was death when one lived in Hell every day?

E/N: Hope we're off to a decent (horrible) start!


	3. Lies

Summary: A brief interlude of waking from the dream-memories of Tarrant's past.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Lies**

Tarrant's eyes slid open, his mind falling out of the dream cycle in which Damien still resided. Something had changed in the Forest. Glancing down at Damien, he subtly shifted the ex-priest into a true sleep with an artful twist of the fae. "Rest now, and I shall return quickly," he whispered toward the now true-slumbering form. His mouth quirked up into what could almost be named an honest smile for but an instant, and then the Forest's senses intruded again.

"Mm, someone is here," the adept whispered to himself. A stealthy slide from the bed brought him to the floor, and with but a flicker of air, the fae had his clothing layered about his person in perfect order. Spotless, pressed, perfect. _Now, let me greet our visitor_, he thought humorlessly as he glided along the ground through the keep. He chanced a look out of the window at the evening sun. Even after the last few days of his 'rebirth,' he still wasn't comfortable standing in the noonday light. Even this smaller degree of it made him discomfited, uneasy. It sure was quicker to his destination that way, though…

With a leap he sprung through the open window and ran down the heavily tiled roof slats of the second story of the keep. And as he neared the edge of the roofing, he set his feet and began a sort of slide the remainder of the way, a look of intense concentration coming over him. At the last second his long legs forced him up into the air in an arc, coldfire flaring bright with its unlight; and from this spot of non-illumination spiraled outward a large, sleek hawk. Wind ruffled the gleaming deep black feathers of the predator as it descended to the earth, whereupon the flash of unlight repeated itself, and a man once again moved within the boundaries of the keep's yard.

Tarrant loped through the gates and out into the Forest. _His_ Forest. He could feel the life forms within responding to his presence and seeking his will. _Where are they?_ he directed his thoughts. And a vague directional impression reached back to him, southeast. And so he adjusted and made no sound as he passed through the greenery. So easily did the Forest accommodate him that no trace of his passing could be found even now, seconds after he had trod here. Not a single blade of grass or deadened leaf showed evidence of the recent departure.

It took barely a quarter hour to reach the area indicated; and as he drew closer, he could begin to feel and slightly taste the fear of a man in his domain. And though he no longer suffered from the affliction of the Unnamed's contract on his soul, he still found himself tensing up in anticipation of the confrontation, of the death about to be loosed. And there was no mistaking his intentions. Centuries of evil steeped in the darkest of iniquities had altered his original persona enough that his enjoyment at this sport was quite genuine.

He located the man, some kind of monk or friar by his dress, along a path that was purposefully circular. Plant life along this path was altered genetically to change appearances by the day, so that when those who passed this way yesterday came upon it again, they saw only a new trail before them. The man wasn't quite terrified yet, as he had heard that the Hunter had been defeated earlier that year. However, the Forest by itself was haunting enough. And the monk turned with a certain apprehension at the sound that Tarrant allowed his footsteps to make as he approached.

"Ah, you there, good sir," the friar began, 'Would you happen to know the way out of these woods? I seem to be quite terribly lost." Tarrant made no answer as he continued to approach, and he ordered the Forest to silence its background noise. Deathly stillness and quiet suddenly permeated the pathway as Tarrant came to a stop in front of the man and fixed him with a cold glare. The man flinched under such scrutiny and began to back away, beginning to feel the cold that the living never failed to notice when in the adept's presence. "Alright, alright now. Nevermind. I'm on my way, stranger." The man's heart was doubling its original pace, and sweat was beginning to exude from his skin. He continued back from Tarrant while the adept watched him with a kind of detached curiosity. He had actually been contemplating how to play with this one, but he found himself in no mood for games at the moment. Let it just be finished quickly. This man did not possess the kind of essence he looked for in a decent kill anyway.

The friar barely had enough time to raise his arms and begin a small, strangled shout before Tarrant had him in a throat crushing grip with one hand. He held the man aloft for a moment, watching his struggles as if from afar. The fear he absorbed was pitiful fare compared to what he was accustomed to, but it was fulfilling in some small manner nonetheless. A short time later, he finished the man's trachea with a quick shake that crushed both it and the spine. He tossed the corpse to the side of the path where the hyena vines would make short work of the remains.

Gathering the fae, he used it to cleanse himself of the stink of the man's fear and piss, and smoothed the wrinkles from where the other had grabbed his wrist and forearm. He glanced upwards and could barely make out that it was almost twilight. Time to get back. That regular sleep pattern wouldn't hold Vryce under against his will. It merely encouraged continued rest. Better to return now and avoid questions. He frowned at this thought. '_No lies_,' _I had said to him, _he thought. _No deceptions_. And he pondered long and hard as he returned to their shared room, playing scenarios out in his head which examined every possible aspect of this combination between them. And he shook his head sadly as he reached the doorway. No answers still. It would not be that simple, he knew, but he also did not look forward to this challenge as he normally would have any other. This one was bound to eventually cause pain on both sides no matter what avenue they took.

He entered without sound, slid out of his silken trappings, and made for the bed. He managed to get almost up to Vryce before he heard, "Hey there. I just woke up as you came in. Where were you? Privy run?" a sleepily smiling Damien queried, deep auburn hair bunched in the back and frayed around his face. Tarrant's heart froze in that instant, and suddenly he regretted his earlier kill as he envisioned what knowledge of it would do to his lover's heart. But he hesitated only momentarily before saying, "Nothing, Damien. I thought I sensed some shift in the fae and went to investigate, but it was gone before I ever made it out. So I came back to you, where I'd very much rather like to be anyway." And the ex-priest seemed to accept this, as he smiled and drew Gerald closer, giving a gentle kiss, saying, "Well, now that I'm up, can we investigate the kitchen together and see if there's anything at all that won't give me the runs soon after eating it?" Gerald hissed a laugh and agreed. Damien continued, "And, Gerald…maybe we can discuss some of the things I saw, dreamed. Whatever." The adept held his peace for a moment and then replied, "No. Please. We will not discuss any of it until all is known. I have told you before that you cannot even begin to comprehend my motivations, and I think I will wait to do any explaining until after you have the entire puzzle before you." "Well, sure. Okay. If that's how you want it," the ex-priest agreed. Damien hopped out of bed first and began to dress while Gerald watched in silent introspection. The other man had believed him about his earlier whereabouts, but for how long? He sighed inwardly. Trouble? Oh yes, of the very worst sort.


	4. Clean

Summary: More of Gerald's childhood is revealed in sad detail. He is about 8 years old here.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Clean**

There wasn't much the kitchens had to offer, especially since the church's raid and Amoril's insanity had ransacked the entire keep only weeks before. Enough was there to piece together for Damien to subsist on for a few days, though, and he had definitely had worse on some of his travels. "I shall send for supplies by carrier bird when you're finished here," Tarrant muttered as he continued his unhappy reconnaissance of the cupboards and pantries. "Will anyone still even deliver here?" Damien asked with surprised. A glare was directed his way before, "They will bring it. They will not be able to do otherwise," the adept answered darkly. The burly warrior began to say something but then stopped himself, thinking for once before speaking. _Well, it's not like he's actually hurting them. They're only delivering things and then leaving. They would have done that for any other customers surely, so what harm in the end?_ he rationalized, feeling proud that he had adroitly avoided a useless confrontation. Tarrant watched him over his shoulder as all of this was passing through the ex-priest's mind. He had been expecting some kind of retort about using people against their will and all that nonsense. The adept's silver eyes narrowed in thought as they ran down the length of the man sitting at one of the kitchen's preparation counters. And those eyes finished their appraisal as they came to the ground. There, almost unnoticed, was a small strand of dark fae that seemed possessive of the area in which Vryce sat. _Curious, _he thought as he watched the deep purple wisp curl and uncurl from the ex-priest's ankle.

As they left the kitchens moments later, Damien commented, "If your reaction to the kitchen is anything to go by, then I'm kind of dreading bringing you to the chapel." He had meant the comment as a joke, but there was no mirth in Gerald's eyes as he replied, "Even when I was the only one here during many years, I always kept the larder stocked. _Always_. It is a…quirk I developed from my youth, even though I no longer consumed the food of the living." Damien thought back to the hunger displayed in just that small portion of Tarrant's life and had to admit that he may have developed the same 'quirk' had it been him. They continued on through the keep, tallying the destruction and noting repairs needed for the remainder of the day. As things stood, it certainly could have been worse. There truly was no unmendable damage. So the day ended on a fairly positive note as a result.

Laying down that night, Tarrant said, "I will begin your sleep with the dream memories and then turn it over to normal rest when I have eventually tired as well." Adjusting to sleeping at night had not come naturally to the Hunter, who now often remained awake long into the dark hours before finally tiring. Just another little adjustment he made for Damien's benefit, as he saw no real difference in assigning one's waking hours to either light or dark. But the warrior had always been a child of light, and so Gerald modified this one minor habit of his. After all, it was but a small price for such wonderful bed company. Damien doffed his overclothes and climbed into the bed, adjusting himself for the Sharing to take place and attempting to prepare himself for what he might find this night in his dreams. Gerald lay softly down beside him, and draped his arm across the ex-priest's large chest, whispering in his ear, "I think we shall go forward a bit this night. Close your eyes and relax, my priest. Submit to me, and let's see what we shall find this time."

...

There was no sound when Gerald woke. And a stillness was about him as he lay there with his eyes closed. Death itself could not have created such a perfect depiction of nothingness. _Do I have to get up? _he thought dimly. Still weakened from the pneumonia that had set in after his lock-in with the chickens almost a year ago, coughs often wracked his thin frame. And he still hadn't regained the energy that is often associated with youth as a result of this. His eyes opened and found nothing at first. Absolutely nothing. And then he realized there was a sheet over his head.

His gasp of surprise alerted whoever was waiting there to his level of consciousness, and they responded by pulling the sheet tight down over his face. His hands flew up to grasp at the material, but the assaulter was too strong and only pulled it across even harder. The sheet had been folded so as to be thickened, and this allowed for very little air flow to cross its composite threads. He struggled as long as he could, but in the end his still weakened lungs and body passed into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, there was no one present in the room with him. His fae-sense confirmed this for him. He tried so hard to never use these skills because of the things he was afraid would be done to him if it was ever discovered that he still used the fae. They had performed an exorcism when he was younger, and had tried leeches and beatings since then. Every time he let it slip, his family reacted in swift violence. The attacker from earlier must have tired of waiting for him to reawaken. There was no telling which of his brothers had done it, as they were all equally capable in strength as well as demeanor. His presence merely served as a distraction and entertainment to them. His life value ran close to that of a pair of shoes, though he suspected they would rather have the shoes He looked toward the window and noted that breakfast was sure to be long over. Another trip to the waste bin seemed almost preferable to facing those monsters again, though. In the end, he decided against trying for any food at all, as his stomach had not settled from his near suffocation.

He washed and dressed, heading out of his servant-portioned room with some small amount of trepidation. He felt hunted in a place that should feel the most secure. Home. When was the last time he had felt safe? Shaking his head, he knew he would never be able to recall. He was about eight at this point, and his studies had been added in earnest now, which had greatly dismayed him at first. This educational time was often spent with some of his other siblings present as there were not very many tutors available in this region. The instructors, for the most part, seemed content to ignore him. They sensed the household animosity toward this singular boy, and so they remained aloft from the family politics, preferring to keep their positions safe by maintaining a policy of noninterference. They had to admit to his intelligence, however. He outstripped all of his brothers, even Simon, in science and mathematics at a mere half-decade of age. He devoured philosophy and Earth history as the poor folk quaff fire-whiskey. And his tutors would often excuse him from classes to study on his own, providing he reported on his progress to them regularly. This would often solve some of the frequent classroom outbreaks of violence for them.

After one such episode, which left Gerald with a broken arm at five years old, the instructors and masters did their best to not set up competitive educational situations such as trivia games. These inevitably would lead to sibling rivalry and infighting. Gerald, being too young at the time to understand why everyone was so angry with him for answering questions correctly, would often win the upper hand only to have their frustrations taken out on him. Often, the other siblings fought each other, too, especially Kalen and Avery, but they were all of a size and nature to defend themselves well enough for the brawls to not turn fatal. However, Gerald was unsure if his father wouldn't simply be proud of whoever was crowned the victor if this fatality occurred.

He left the wing of the keep designated for living quarters and aimed for the library. Perhaps he could find a measure of solitude in there for a while. The place was empty when he arrived. And he marveled at how many books were available to him. Given his father's mindset, he would never have thought the man would value the written word, as this room seemingly indicated. More likely, the man simply sought to have more than his neighbor so as to appear more intelligent by way of possessing so many works of literary art. A little used desk sat in the corner by the window, dust filming its surface. It afforded the best view of the library entrance, and so Gerald chose this spot to settle down with a few of his choice volumes. His interest today lay in discovering more about these scientists of old Earth, who discovered so many beautiful and marvelous things.

From what he could tell, these men and women were given almost absolute freedom in the pursuit of their goals. Some very few were mocked and ridiculed until their dying day, only to then become famous later on after death for finally being proven right. Gerald chuffed at this, figuring he'd probably be dead soon enough at the hands of his brothers and no one would ever wonder if he could have ever been one of these brilliant individuals. He felt the power of knowledge within him, and he felt as though a great many things were denied him. He longed to be able to set this free and flourish under instruction by someone who paid him attention and actually cared about his future. His goals.

Future? _Here I am, eight summers, and I wonder for my future_, he thought acidly to himself. He was continuing along that line of thought when he realized too late that he had been approached by not one, but three, people. His introspection had prevented him from watching the doors closely enough. He looked up into the cruel, laughing eyes of Simon, Berndt, and Avery, as Simon removed the book from his grasp. "What's this? Oh, this is too advanced for you, runt. Maybe you should try…" Simon glanced around until finding a quill. "Maybe you should try just doing your letters first." He turned to the other two, "Grab him." They complied, coming behind him and each taking an arm. There was no fighting them, especially not in his extreme weakened state.

Simon came around with the quill pen, grabbed Gerald's right sleeve, and tore it open to the elbow. "Now then, we'll just need you some ink," he said as he dug the quill into the tender underside of Gerald's forearm. Blood welled out and ran down the arm. He had cried out at first, and then held it back. He would give them no satisfaction. Simon spoke again, allowing the nib to become drenched in the boy's blood, "Now, here, write what I tell you," and handed Gerald the quill. "I am filth. I don't deserve to live. I am a mistake. No one cares if I live or die." And Gerald began writing, his blood making an odd script on the page. "No, not on the paper you idiot! On _yourself_," Avery sneered from behind him. And Gerald hesitantly brought the pen over to his left arm and began to write the words again. They made him repeat this over and over until the wound had stopped bleeding, the words covered his left arm in clotted, flaking bits.

Berndt shoved him into the desk, and Avery turned and punched his fist into Gerald's abdomen. "Lesson's over runt. Why don't you go crawl away and cry. And better yet, just stay gone, you're bringing down the property value!" Simon hollered over his shoulder as he left, the other two trailing behind and slamming the door. Once his breathing had evened out again, Gerald walked to the door to check the hallway outside, but the latch wouldn't budge. Locked. _I guess lunch is out of the question now, too,_ he thought dismally as he made his slow and painful way over to a recliner sofa beside the doors. The cleaning staff came here in the evenings, so he just had to wait. _At least I'll not be hungry if I'm sleeping_, he thought as he drifted off on the sofa cradling his aching gut.

It was past dinnertime when the library door finally swung open and Harl from the house staff stepped in to begin dusting. "Oh," he said upon seeing Gerald, "I didn't know I would be disturbing someone. I'm sorry." And as he began to back out of the door, Gerald halted him, saying, "No, no. I was locked in this morning and was simply passing the time in sleep." At this statement, Harl looked at him, really looked at him. "So that means you've missed both lunch and, just now, dinner, too, young sir?" The thin, pale boy in front of him merely shrugged as if it mattered not at all. "Well, young sir, I still have a mite of bread and cheese in the servant's room down the hall. Maybe a bit of milk, too. It's not fare fit for one of your station, but it will serve to still the hunger you're sure to be feelin'."

Gerald's eyes almost filled with tears, and they burned as he politely accepted the elderly man's kind offer, thinking with dark mirth about the food not being fit for 'his station.' Harl set him up with the food and left to fulfill his duties. The poor boy tried to restrain himself from overeating, but he had gone so long without. And tears ran down his face at the simple kindness of the old servant who had no idea of his struggles. Hunger seemed a constant companion nowadays. Its hollow ache almost a given at any time of his day. He ate his fill and took a small portion of bread with him to his room afterwards.

Upon reaching the door, he began to smell something quite malodorous. And when he opened it, the smell hit him full force. It smelled of human waste and piss. Taking in the sights of his tiny room, it didn't take him long to find the source. His bed had been smeared with shit and had been pissed on. His brothers' latest art work. This would take forever to clean up, he thought resignedly, walking to the mattress. A hand grabbed him from behind and shoved him onto the bed, directly into the largest convergence of filth. "All pigs like to lie in shit don't they?" he heard Roderick ask. "Oh yes, they quite often like to wallow in it. But look, this one's gotten very dirty indeed," Simon's voice registered. "Well then, let's wash him off," laughed Roderick back at him. Gerald, face down on his filth-covered bed, felt hot urine patter on to his back, and then another stream poured onto his hair. He groaned in disgust and tried to push up but was slammed back down almost immediately. "Oh no, piggy. You're too nasty to come play with the rest of us. Eh, what's this?" Simon asked as he picked up the bread that had rolled from Gerald's hand when he had been pushed.

"The pig's been eating where he shouldn't. Pigs aren't allowed where people eat," and Simon smashed the bread into a puddle of urine that had formed between Gerald and the sheet. "I think he should have to give up what he stole from the kitchens," said Roderick. "Nah, he never went to the kitchens; Avery and Jasul have been there watching all evening. Someone else must've stole it for him," Simon said. "Well then don't worry piggy, we'll find out who, and you'll never eat stolen food again," laughed Roderick as he pulled Gerald off the bed and began punching him in the belly. "Give it back, piggy. Give it back!" And Gerald fell over to the floor. So they both began kicking him until he finally did vomit, so dizzy and disoriented from the brutality. "Any more? We can put a stick down his throat to see if any more comes up, Sim." But Simon was done with this part of his game, "No, he's given it all back, I think. You go ahead to the lounge, and I'll meet you there in a few. Make sure that maid, what's her name, Hanna, is there." Roderick, ever obedient to the sibling leader, nodded and trotted away with a chuckle at what they had done here.

Simon turned to Gerald and squatted down beside him. He looked at Gerald quite strangely for a minute. "I'm not quite sure you learned the lesson here tonight, pig." And Gerald tried weakly to say that he had, but he was too far gone from the beating at the moment. Simon stood and rolled the smaller boy over onto his belly using his boot. The he bent over and yanked the trousers from Gerald's hips, ripping one side completely. Gerald's eyes flew wide at this. What was he doing?! But he no time to think, because there was a sudden weight on his back, forcing his small chest into the stone floor and making it difficult to breath. A sudden pain at his rectum tore a scream from his throat, which only earned him a blow to the back of the head. "Shut up, pig," grunted Simon. Gerald whimpered and tears ran down his face at the pain. He could barely breath as he was rhythmically pushed into the cold stone. And when Simon stood up minutes later, buckling his trousers back into place, Gerald lay still as death. Simon merely huffed at the sight, saying, "I'll be seeing more of you later, piglet," before leaving him there on the floor.

After he was sure his brother was truly gone, he gingerly placed his hands against the floor and pulled himself to the rug at the center of the room. He lay there, taking what comfort he could from the fibers that were at least kinder than the unyielding stones. As he looked back to where he had dragged himself from, he noted a small amount of blood mixed with the urine and shit he had brought here with him. He was too injured to focus on that now, though. He just lay there, dazed and heart pounding in his ears, wishing that he could at least be clean as he slipped into unconsciousness. If he must be hungry and beaten, couldn't he at least be clean?


	5. Mockery

Summary: Pretty much the same. More horrid pieces of Gerald's past mixed with a pinch of the present. I must apologize because I have done this entire chapter during a two day migraine from hell, so watch out for poorer quality than usual…

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

Mockery

There were no words that could describe the pain Damien felt for Tarrant. Such a childhood as was slowly being revealed to him nightly would have destroyed most people inside a single year. Whether Tarrant believed it or not, Damien felt that these depictions of pubescent violence were exactly the sort of things upon which he could place adequate blame for the centuries of evil displayed through the Hunter's actions. He did not want or mean to, but he found himself rationalizing past acts which were inexcusable to him only a few years prior. Well, perhaps he did not exclude free will entirely, but he discovered an almost rabid desire within himself to justify the love he held for this being. And so, even though he dreaded each night of inescapably horrific memories, he also began to look forward to them as well. Further validation of his meager hopes awaited him, after all. Tarrant had been a good person once, of that he was certain. But the absurdly violent treatment of him at the hands of his own family had obviously begun a descent into the cavernous depths wherein the Unnamed resided. He wondered, at what point would he begin to see this innocent boy turn into the ruthless killer that had then plagued this region for centuries past…and present? Would it occur suddenly or gradually?

And as the ex-priest contemplated these revelations, Tarrant watched. Specifically, he watched Damien. He could observe no outward differences to the other man, yet he sensed that something internal was taking place. Something subtle, yet of great importance. If only he could Divine or Know it! But no, the other man would sense it, and then questions would start. Better to observe for now, since he only had suspicions and nothing concrete. He could swear, though, that he caught something out of his peripheral vision every now and then. Something dark and wispy. And it always centered on one thing and then disappeared as soon as he focused on it. Damien. He suspected the dark fae but could find no discernible shift in the pattern of its movements around the ex-priest when he focused his scrutiny there. No, wait. Maybe… There it was! As the dark fae flowed around the ex-priest, as was its usual pattern, occasionally it would flow _**to**_ him instead. Tarrant glanced down at his own form's position in the fae flow, noting how it _**always**_ flowed _to_ himself. He looked back up at Damien again, appraising. Curious, so very curious. And so, he watched. Waited. _Patience_.

…

Two months flew by for young Gerald, and he began to truly recover from his pneumonia. This was due, in large part, to the food being smuggled to him from Harl. The old man with his wispy cloud of white hair and enormous ears had guessed much that night he had found Gerald in the library. And so, twice a day now, the boy found food supplements left in his room, always cleverly hidden. It was mostly odds and ends such as bread, cheese rinds, or half a sausage. But to Gerald, they were often his only source of nourishment. They never spoke of it aloud, but the strength of the gratitude Gerald felt towards this kind servant was of the fierce determination that one rides to battle with. He would repay the man someday when he was a bit older and had something he could actually offer. He promised himself that almost daily.

Unfortunately, his brothers knew he was getting food from _somewhere_, and they would often simply beat him until he vomited, or they would force things down his throat to induce the vomiting if the beating was insufficient to do so. He tried to be obscure concerning his whereabouts when he could, so that they would continue to focus on _him_ to locate his source, thinking him merely cleverly sneaky. So he would climb out of windows or go an exceptionally long walk around the outer buildings in order to get to parts of the keep so that they would think he was detouring for food. He would need to get better at it, though, because they would catch on soon if he didn't find another way to vary his travels through his home. Once they figured out his current patterns, they would follow him and see that _he_ was not the one gathering the staples, which would lead them to look elsewhere.

It was one of these long, round about walks that brought him to his current location. Perhaps he was prescient, or perchance fate was just dealing harshly with the unloved this night. Whatever the cause, Gerald felt a cold weight settle in his lower belly when he came through the main hall to find many people there already. Gazing around, he noticed that several servants who were usually stationed elsewhere this time of evening were present. Clustered together at one side of the enormous entryway to the Tarrant keep, they talked amongst themselves, some quite animatedly. Finding no logical explanation internally for this gathering, Gerald approached to find the answer, and snatches of conversations reached his ears that turned his legs liquid and made it difficult to breathe.

"…was in the lockboxes I 'eard," one pretended to whisper. "I never thought that he of all…" faded out before it was complete. Gerald moved closer. "…there wasn't a thing left, and I've known Harl for all my time here," some adamant red head was finishing. Only one dissenter seemed present. "Took from the pantry and _nothing_ else. The lot of yeh should be asham't," said an angry old spinster as she shuffled away and over to the side of them. No one seemed to pay her any heed, though, as the popular rumor of some kind of thievery was bantered back and forth amongst them. And after a few more comments containing references to Harl, the poor boy was now in a state of disbelief. Had he heard them correctly? _Harl_ was being accused of theft? It was so absurd as to be laughable. Harl had been in the Tarrant family's employ since his ninth summer, and he was now in his sixties. Surely no one actually believed these things? The faces beyond the door where the servants had gathered, however, did not look to share the same opinion.

Gerald's father and mother sat in the formal receiving room, which was patterned in miniature after a royal throne room. Gold filigree and large, robust columns gave a certain majestic, yet overpowering, feel to place. Another method in which Harrod Tarrant reminded all visitors and supplicants of his authority. Gerald's brothers sat in chairs behind them and to the right, while advisors and other household leaders sat to the left. Harl stood before them all, back as straight as its naturally stooped posture would allow. His simple clothing looked very shabby indeed before these folk, and his face looked to be holding back strong emotions. None of those arrayed before him looked upon his bent frame with any evidence of kindness or recognition.

They had obviously been debating for a while before Gerald's arrival by the look of things. A low murmur was a constant background noise as those facing Harl talked among themselves. It continued like this for several more minutes after his arrival. The dull noise ended, though, when Harrod waved an arm and began to speak to the crowd. "I have thought long enough on these accusations brought before me by my son. He is nearly of an age to be considered a man now, and so I value his word as a Tarrant noble of this house." He turned his face to the old man below him, "Harl Jessup, for this crime of theft against we who have employed and sheltered you for most of your life, the punishment shall be severe indeed. I shall see you crippled and thrown from these gates. Any other family employed here will be expelled from our service as well." He turned to face the expectant crowd again, "Let those present witness this justice of the Tarrant line." And Harrod leaned over to make a loud and smirking comment to the head guardsman of the house, "At least he can still join the circus with a pair of mangled legs, eh, Reynolds? Ha ha!" Gerald watched in horror as men immediately came to seize Harl's arms and drag him away. This couldn't be happening! His body unfroze itself. "No!" the boy shouted, starting forward, "No, it was me!" But he was caught up suddenly by the old woman who had stalked away from the group's gossipers earlier, "Hush now, boy. Your father won't appreciate any contradictions to his will. Especially not in public," she said in a firm, but soft, voice. "But Harl didn't do anything! He only gave me the bread because I had nothing else," Gerald moaned to her, almost collapsing to the floor. He was still so thin and weak that even an old woman posed an obstacle for him.

The old woman looked him in the eyes for a second before saying, "And that's a sad tale indeed. But something tells me that your father'd be right angry to hear it. But not for the right reasons. Trust me boy, I've been here as long as ol' Harl, and I know a lost cause when I see one." Her eyes were sympathetic and sad as she spoke these words to him. And Gerald knew, then, that the woman was right. No matter that this was a mockery of true justice, as long as the Tarrant boys got their sport. How he hated this utter helplessness, this despair! Would no one ever care about him? Would no one ever listen? And now poor Harl was paying the price for his family's cruelty. And so he cried, his pale face reddened and marked by his anguish. "There, there now, boy. You go on back to where you were from and get away from all this bad business," the woman tried telling him. "You come see old Urszula every now and then if you need a nip to tide you over, eh?" He nodded, but truly just wanted to get away from everyone. And so he disentangled himself from the crowd and quickly left for one of the upper gallery rooms with a balcony. Here, he had an outstanding view of the front courtyard and could be alone and unobserved.

The twilight evening hung suspended over him in velvety glory. And a springtime breeze played with a few leaves across the way. Gerald gazed down at the cobblestones, awaiting the scene he kept wishing would not happen. But as with all his other wishes, this one came to naught. No one from the crowd followed as Harl was led to the central edge of the courtyard by the guards. Harrod and two of his sons followed, Simon and Berndt. Voices could just reach his elevated position as Gerald's father spoke to the two boys, "As you are the witnesses to the crime, and soon to be nobles of the Tarrant household in your own right, I will charge you now with carrying out the sentencing." This did not seem to bother the two boys in the least as they looked at the old man with undisguised malice. "You must cripple, but not kill. It can be a difficult task to accomplish with those who are elderly, my sons, so be wary." The Neocount spoke as if from much experience, his dark hair loosely clasped behind his neck barely moving with the breeze.

Guards stepped forward with long club like sticks that the town watch often used for breaking up brawls in the streets. Each boy took one and then stood facing the elderly man and each other, as if trying to assess who should move first. Gerald closed his eyes for a moment and then heard the first thunk of wood and flesh. He noted that Harl did not cry out when Berndt struck the blow, which landed alongside the knee, though it buckled him over instantly. A second blow was quick to follow from Simon, who surely didn't want to look hesitant in front of his father. And soon they both traded off well timed hits that eventually had the unfortunate man moaning in mindless agony on the ground. When a strike to the head suddenly halted the sound that had been issuing forth from Harl, the two stopped and looked to their father in panic. But he spoke calming words in a lecturing tone, "You see, it is easy to go too far with the old or infirm. Let this be a lesson to you, my sons." And then he grinned before continuing, "Now put those down and come along back inside before the light is gone completely. We still have a dinner reception to hold." Turning to the guardsmen, he said, "Wherever you feel is proper, you may dispose of this." And with that, he began to turn back to his two sons, but something caught his eye.

Harrod stared up at Gerald, who was openly weeping at the unfairness and cruelty of what he had just been witness to. His small hands gripped the railing with white knuckles. The Neocount fixed the boy with a cold and disapproving glare and then began moving again as he called out harshly to Simon and gestured upwards to the balcony. Cold fear raced down Gerald's spine, halting the flow of tears. His father had seen him! He was frozen in place. But the fear slowly turned to acceptance after a moment or so of clear thought. _So be it_. Perhaps, in this small way, he could pay some form of homage to Harl. Gerald sniffed as he looked back down at the crumpled form of the only person who had shown him any kindness these last few months. Mayhap in the last few years even…

And as he looked on, guards began to put out the torches around the courtyard, with a pair trudging over to the still and lifeless form discarded near the center. Its offending presence would be gone momentarily. The area became slowly swallowed in blossoming darkness as they proceeded dousing the torchlight. Footsteps in the room adjoining the balcony alerted Gerald to his siblings' arrival. But he felt calm and detached for once, as if he, too, had fled this place alongside the old servant's soul. Hands grabbed him roughly from the side, but his eyes were glazed and blank. Very little remained in the visible spectrum after the removal of the torches below. Only the luminescence of the gathering stars shone down upon them. And though they were bright in the heavens, the young boy's heart held such a gathering darkness as to blot out their silvery glow from his world. He thought of nothing, really, as they tore his clothes and bruised his body. And eventually he stopped seeing anything in the physical realm altogether that night. He had been witness to numerous such atrocities in his very short life thus far. And from these, he had concluded one fact that normally takes years for most to deduce. The human soul holds the greatest capacity for evil that there ever was or will be. _Could there be anything darker than __**this**__?_ And his world slowly faded to an all-encompassing gray…


	6. Descent

Summary: Interlude between dream-memories of Gerald's past. What is happening to Damien?

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement. Quote contained within about the knife through the heart is taken from BSR.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Descent**

Damien held still in the early morning hours as he lay on his side of the bed. Breath frosted above him, confirming Tarrant's proximity. _So strange_, floated through his mind. _How is it I think I can ever get used to this?_ He craned his neck carefully to view the adept, always an artful sleeper. And true to form, he lay posed with one arm flung over his head, the other lightly gripping a cover edge. Golden brown hair lay across the pillow as if some intelligent mind had crafted it there instead of random dream-filled tosses. _And I wouldn't put it past him either_, he thought wryly. _Vain bastard_. Damien felt his own scruffy face and winced. Better to shave now before the accusing looks started. He lifted the sheets and slowly began to sneak his way out of the bedspread so as not to wake the slumbering artwork splayed beside him. But as his feet made contact with cold stone, he heard, "The day _you_ can sneak away from _me_, Vryce, is very far away indeed."

Turning to meet those silvery eyes, he felt his legs go weak, partially in feelings of immature love and infatuation, but also with a touch of extreme sympathy for what he had just witnessed in their shared dream-memories. It was difficult to place those same sea gray orbs with those of the oft abused child he witnessed nightly now. Tarrant caught the look before he could hide it, though, and annoyance flickered across the not-so-dissolved bond they shared. "Must I explain again that I no longer consider those images of any note? I have recreated myself since then, and I have consciously made every decision hence. Save your pity, priest. After all, they got what they were due, didn't they?" the adept remarked cryptically. It was a known fact that his brothers had all died within a short time after Tarrant's own mysterious disappearance all those centuries ago. But nothing had ever been recorded other than they had all perished. Horribly.

Rather than face this same old argument again, Damien begged off to go shave. When he returned, Tarrant was gone. The bed was immaculate, as was the room. Damien sighed. For such a monstrosity, the Prince of Jehanna was certainly a tidy housemum. With an inner giggle at his silly train of thought, Damien proceeded to dress and travel the long hallways to the kitchens. How did people never starve by choosing to stay in rooms so far from the food? His stomach echoed his thoughts but moments later as he continued walking.

Arriving in the kitchens, he found Tarrant looking out of a window towards the keep gate. The adept spoke as he gazed past the gates and into the Forest's dark paths, "They will arrive today with supplies, so you needn't be foraging any longer. I had them bring all manner of other things I thought living beings might need or find useful. It's been quite a while since I've had to think of these things, understand." The way he said the word 'living' made Damien's skin crawl. Half derogatory, half…hungry? It gave him the creeps in any event. "Yeah, well, I'm sure whatever you thought of will be fine. I don't need much," he replied, trying to keep on the positive side of things. Tarrant's gaze flicked over to where the ex-priest stood rummaging through a cupboard, "What you _need_…I'm afraid I don't have," the adept whispered. But Damien was too busy digging for something to break his fast, and so it went unheard.

It was almost noon when the first of the deliveries arrived. And as they kept coming, Damien had to wonder just what exactly Tarrant was stocking up for. How would he alone consume all of this food since Tarrant's appetites didn't seem to have changed much since his transformation via Karril? And a short while later, he had his answer. Ten villagers showed up looking decidedly scared but determined. None of them wore the blank, sorcerously Worked affect that the rest of the delivery folk had. So these weren't under a Compulsion? What were they here for? And just as he was about to ask that very question, Tarrant had it out for him, "They are here for work, Damien. Did you imagine I would be cooking for you? Cleaning? Not likely. I have made my contacts in the surrounding regions aware that I am, indeed, still very much alive, as the term applies, and so one of the first things I sent for were servants. I am keeping to the bare minimum of staffing for now because I want to be careful who treads here for the next few years. But ten should suffice."

Damien looked at the line of anxious men and women... His head snapped back to the second gender he had just made note of. Women! Though none were of the dark-haired, frail type that the Hunter had so favored for his kills, it still shocked him to his core to see females of _any_ stature here. And again before he could speak, Tarrant having seen the reaction on his face, the adept cut in, "A gesture of good faith, Vryce," he said smoothly. "That I have…changed." The last word sounded somewhat hesitant and strange, but Damien supposed that was to be expected. After all, it had to be just as weird for the adept himself to have women in any living capacity taking residence in his keep. "Their families are all assured of 'special protection' from the forces dwelling within Jehanna," finished the Hunter with an almost-smile. Damien spoke up at that, "Protection from _what_, Gerald? This had better…" Tarrant waved a hand in negation. "No no no, Vryce. They simply don't realize they no longer require this provision; that is all. I felt it appropriate to extend it simply because that is the contract they are used to, from before. A few are even from my previous staff. They must have fled when Amoril went insane in the time I was gone to Shaitan."

Damien looked again at the line of people as Tarrant glided over to them to separate them for their new, or resumed, duties. They looked both normal and willing enough he supposed. Nothing untoward about them. And he would make sure they stayed that way, he thought right after. None of these folk would come to harm because of a lack of vigilance or foresight on his part.

Some of them shot glances his way as they listened to Tarrant lay down new and old rules for them. Suddenly, Damien wondered what they thought of himself. Tall and rugged, with many a scar earned in battle, and a stance that told onlookers that he was ready for anything, he surely looked intimidating to the majority of folk on Erna. That is, until one spoke with him. And then his dark auburn hair and brilliant hazel eyes would dazzle them with laughter as he won them over with his warm personality. He hoped some of that warmth was bleeding off to this crowd. They looked scared enough already. He looked at Tarrant again, in front of the crowd. Warmth? He shuddered. What had he fallen into? Tarrant turned and frowned at him as he began to lead the group to the hug double doors of the keep, as if reading his thoughts once more.

Damien stayed behind, enjoying the afternoon sun and wind, or what was left of it. It was beginning to cloud over, though. The violence of storms were often quickly drawn to the malevolent whirlpool of the Forest's center like moths to flame. _Maybe have some rain in an hour or so_, he thought. He walked over to the main fountain and sat on its edge, watching the water sparkle as it hit the pool. Cloud shadows danced across the water as the storm moved in. He was finding more and more that he actually enjoyed watching the strange nature of the Forest at work. It was artful how Tarrant had arranged this singular ecosystem to function.

And then a more purposeful shadow caught his eye. _What?_ He glanced up. There was nothing there except an older gentleman bringing a cart behind him. Just another delivery. _I guess I'm on edge with all of these people arriving. I've been in battle mode for so long, it's just hard to shut down_, he thought. With all of the changes in the last few days, who could blame him for being on edge? But then he saw it flicker again as he turned his head. The man was still there. Nothing suspicious other than this feeling. _Hmmm_. He continued observing the man for another few minutes, but it seemed that direct observation only confirmed the normality of the situation. Sighing loudly, he turned away.

Gerald was entering the now darkened courtyard again, having finished with the new staff assignments. The adept was still a good distance from the new arrival when Damien noticed the man's hands. They just looked wrong to him. He concentrated harder on them, watching for even the slightest of changes. There it was! The man's left hand was reaching in his inner pocket. _For what?_ And Damien's breath caught as he saw it; the knife. It was Gerald's knife, with his family's crest on it! How did this man come to have it? But no time for that question; what was _he_ going to do to stop him? And why didn't Tarrant see what was happening when he was always so alert for everything else?! Gerald was perhaps ten paces away from the man now. He needed to act.

_"A knife through the heart is as fatal to an adept as anyone else," _blasted through Damien's memory. Tarrant's own words; how prophetic. And then Damien was moving, and fast. His legs pumped long and hard to cover the twenty or so paces he was from the man. Tarrant saw him coming and stopped, staring at him oddly. The man, facing away, did not see Damien, but heard his boots slapping the ground when he was a few feet away. The man only half-turned before Damien tackled him to the ground, shouting to Gerald, "He's got a knife! Your knife!" And Damien punched the man's face into the stones, then he grabbed his neck and shoulders and began to squeeze. Gerald's interest had perked at the mention of the knife, and he quickly intercepted Damien, taking hold of the man's bloody shirt collar and hauling him upright and away from the beating being dealt out. "We can't very well question him if he's unconscious, can we, Vryce?" he chuckled while pawing at the man's coat and pants in a search for the blade. "He's better off dead is what I think," snarled Damien, surprised at his own vehemence; and he took some deep breaths in an effort at calming himself.

And then Tarrant, halting his search, looked up into his eyes and said ever so softly, "Damien, there is no knife." Damien was flabbergasted, "What?! No! I saw it! And it was _yours_. The one you gave me to kill the Undying Prince with, that had your crest along its edge, its…" his voice died out as he, too, searched the man frantically, almost upending him from Tarrant's grip, and then looked to the ground to see if it had fallen out there. But in the end, he found what Tarrant had. Nothing.

"I think…I think you need rest, Damien. Perhaps these dream-memories are taking more out of you than I had thought they would." Glancing at the bloody and almost-unconscious man, he said, "I'll take care of this one and see he gets tended to and sent on his way. Perhaps with new memories… You go get some soup or something light, and lie down. I'll be with you shortly." The adept was still looking at him in that odd manner, as if studying him at the same time as interacting with him. Damien looked again at the man's face, horror and nausea overcoming him, "Yeah, I'll…I'll do that…Gerald…I'll go…do that…I'm sorry…" he said dumbly as he spun several times trying to orient himself, and then finally exited quickly to the inner keep.

Tarrant watched him flee, the shadows of the oncoming storm and the closely surrounding Forest making it just possible for the dark fae to gather in smoky purple wisps along the ground. Damien hastened through the fae-misted gatherings, and it swirled in eddies as his legs passed quickly through it…and then, seemingly, it _tugged_ in his wake. More so than a normal mist would. Even more so than normal _fae_ wisps would... It seemed almost as if it was trying to _follow_ him. And when he was gone from the courtyard, a small trail of fae could still actually be seen to flow along his pathway for a moment or two afterwards. _Deeper and deeper_, Tarrant thought, his eyes closing almost fully as he added this small event to his new theories of human interaction with the fae. _Damien, what is happening with you?_ He considered the ramifications. Something different…something…evil… And… _And should I stop it?_ He paused, considering, and then he laughed to himself. _Or should I encourage it? _Deeper and deeper_…_


	7. Smile

Summary: Back in the past, Gerald discovers a new use for his so-called "curse."

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Smile**

Gerald ran. He ran from his family. He ran from his fears. He ran from the pain and the unfairness of his world. Why this? Why that? Any number of speculations flew through his young mind. At eleven summers, he was more educated than most adults five times his age. He was, to put it simply, brilliant. He could discern patterns where others saw confusing amalgams of nothingness. He could calculate, well, anything really, if he was given time and the appropriate instruments. But despite his intelligent mind, he was still just a young, pale and scrawny boy in the control of a family who seemingly cared very little for his welfare. Thus, one night after barely managing to escape yet another forced sexual escapade of his siblings' devising, he fled from their presence and kept going. But not to his room, as was his wont. And not to the kitchen pantries, as he did when his room was being watched. When he made it outside of the keep boundaries, he continued to run, looking back often for the pursuit he knew would eventually come. He fled. Into the night-shrouded woods surrounding Tarrant Estates.

There was barely enough light filtering through the treetops from the moon to see by, but his fear of _them_ was greater than his fear of getting lost. Branches thwapped him in the face and roots tangled on his legs as he kept on. Abrasions and small gouges appeared as he passed through these obstacles. But Gerald understood that all the woods did was draw blood. His family drained him of something more finite and precious, and so he welcomed the small cruelties of the trees.

Eventually he slowed and then stopped altogether, almost collapsing forward. Great heaving and gasping breaths escaped him as he hit his knees and then gave up and sat down on the soft loam of the forest floor. He realized after a while that it had grown too dark for 'normal' folk to see by. His fae sight was his only guide, and he was largely unpracticed at its use due to the need of suppressing it for his safety's sake. Any hint of this would mean more purgings and exorcisms from his father and mother. He drew his gaze across the trees on front of him, noting how the earth fae flowed into and up the trunks. He also noted the dark fae as it swept along serpent-like on the ground. It seemed to flow around and between all the living things in the forest, creating a kind of detailed outline for his adept's eyes. Good, he could use this as a visual guide through the rest of the night. And then…he sighed inwardly. What did he think he was going to do? Live here? Ha! What a fool he'd been to run so far. He'd _have_ to return sometime…

His logical cogwheels spinning, Gerald calculated just how long he'd have to wait before heading back. He ended his summation with the estimate of a little over three hours. In one hour was their general curfew. In another, they would begin to bore waiting for him to show. By the third hour, they would just figure on rising early to catch him coming back with the morning sun. And with that figured out, the bedraggled boy set himself to occupy his time by daydreaming of one day being able to leave this place behind him forever. He was certain there had to be a form of normalcy for him somewhere. Or even just a place where his own safety didn't always feel threatened would be a change of pace. And amidst those pleasing and somewhat friendly imaginings, something darker lurked. In one version, instead of simply leaving the keep and his family behind, he also left them dead of an alchemical substance he had come across in his studies. He shook his head. Where had that come from? Strange.

In the woods nearby, something moved, slowly rustling the leaves of a low-grown tree. Now, in general, the woods surrounding the Tarrant family home had been scoured of demonlings and such. And no one but the family and their servants were allowed on the land, so not many nightmares spawned by campside tales or fears ever sprang into being in these parts. However, when you're eleven, things that go bump in the night can take on a whole new meaning. And unfortunately, in this world they inhabited now, thought could become reality. While Gerald knew and understood all of this and the potential danger he was placing himself in, he just couldn't overcome his childborn fears. And so something moved again. Closer.

Gerald drew his knees up to his chest as he stared into the fae-lit oblivion of the forest's depths. The noise had originated from the left of his visual field, and so he initially focused there, soon averting his eyes as peering straight into the spot seemed to make it even more difficult to observe. There was nothing there anyway, he thought over and over to himself, somehow not quite convincing the growing dread inside his chest. His eyes flicked around the area searching for the easiest exit, the quickest retreat. Just in case.

And as he searched, the movements increased and rose to a crescendo that had Gerald climbing to his feet in great haste. He had begun to step in the direction of his chosen escape route when his brother Kalen burst through the treebrush and into the space before him. Gerald's heart sank, yet his spirits weren't quite dampened by this turn of events. At least it was simply his usual physical pursuers and not the nightmare his mind had been building up for him. At least, he had thought so. But then his brother's eyes found his, and Gerald took stock of what the dark fae was doing; what it _shouldn't_ be doing. It flowed into and all around Kalen and then shown through the windows of his eyes. Flat eyes. Dead eyes. This wasn't Kalen. It was Gerald's nightmare of Kalen. And it took a staggering step toward him, as if unsteady on its feet.

The young boy gathered what courage he had left and turned to flee as an unearthly moan erupted from the thing now behind him, watching his progress with the eyes of one recently dead. The sound was so deep that he more felt it within himself than actually heard it. It spurred him on to greater speeds as the adrenaline flushed through his arteries anew. Demonspawn! This was the very thing his instructors, family, and church warned about. Being so young, Gerald had never actually encountered a true-to-life evil fae construct before. Not particularly because of the protectiveness of his family, but more from his general confinement and poor overall health, he had simply never been able to venture far from the keep. Especially at night. And so all of his childish notions and fears continued to flood his mind as he ran from the thing.

The moan became a screech, then the screech became an almost-human scream. As Gerald crashed through the woods, the almost-human part became more human sounding, as if it were adapting its new body as time progressed, changing vocal cords around to fit the surrounding flesh. A garbled mess of word-salad reached his ears at times, barely decipherable as language, and as yet unintelligible. And it seemed it was growing fainter! With renewed hope of losing the creature, Gerald dodged around a particularly large thicket of shrubs before changing direction slightly, his adept's gifted vision a blessing he had never dreamed of as he avoided dips and rocks that would have otherwise delayed or injured him. Soon, he couldn't even hear the thing's pursuit any longer. He continued on for a while longer before stopping, though, just to be certain.

He passed a tree stand that looked accessible only to someone of such small stature and quickly explored for a possible concealed hideaway. Off in the distance, he heard a crash and a yell. Quickly as he could quietly pull himself through the closely knit trunks, he plunged into the center of the cluster of trees. He quickly scanned his new shelter. He had about three to four paces in diameter within the circular formation and plenty of ground shrubs to further camouflage his whereabouts. And so he crouched there, panting, sweating. Fearing.

Several minutes passed and the crashing in the distance faded. His breathing had returned to normal, and his heart was almost at baseline again as well. He thought of the time of night it must be and winced. He would have to hide here for a long time before he felt he could return to the keep, which would probably put him returning in time with his siblings' morning ambush. Damn. And suddenly, the hairs on his arms stood vertical and tiny bumps of an evil premonition spread over his body. He felt air cross his neck as a voice directly behind haltingly said, "Hello. Brother."

Gerald tried to leap forward, but the thing hit him from behind, and he ended up more flung out of the shelter than anything. And as he rolled to a stop and began to pull himself to his feet, he watched in utter horror, and a sickening fascination, as the thing fluidly melted through the tree cover and reformed into solidity in front of it. It spoke to him again, its voice a good, if raspy, imitation of Kalen's, "So glad we can find each other here, dear brother." It reached out toward him with fingers longer than a human's would ever be. "Come, and I will show you what eternity looks like, mortal boy."

Gerald attempted the only course of action he had, turning to again flee the scene. Something stopped him, though. And as he glanced down, he saw the dark fae swirling around his torso, holding him to his position, and as he frantically followed its source with his eyes, he saw it leading directly back to the thing in his brother's guise. It smirked a little as it noticed his discovery, then gave a hissing laugh. "This won't take long, boy. _Brother_." And it laughed again as if it were making a joke to itself. Gerald felt his feet begin to slide along the ground as the fae dragged him backwards to the creature beckoning to him. Fresh fear and anguish filled him as he realized his helplessness against this thing. Why was he always so damn helpless?! Why?! It wasn't fair! He had such promise, such potential, and _no one cared_. No one ever cared. He struggled mightily for one so young, but he was no match for the powerful wraith.

He realized as he moved in the direction opposite that which he desired, that truly no one cared about him at all. Not even that old servant woman Urszula. She pitied him, but would his death really affect her? No. She would merely tut-tut and think it a miserable world, and then go on sweeping the staircase. His family would simply make a token search effort to save face and then hold a funeral quickly thereafter. His brothers would miss their punching bag and sexual abuse toy for about a day before they found another lost soul to torture in his stead. His father would probably consider this a culling of the weak from the herd, making the Tarrant line stronger. He had always known that no one truly gave two shits about his well-being, but until now, he hadn't understood just how much that knowledge verily pissed him off and hurt him.

Gerald screamed out in defiance of his fate, like a mouse squeaking as the snake swallows it whole. He poured all his hate and fear and loathing for life itself into the scream. _This isn't the end of me. I'll show you all. You will pay. You will all PAY!_ And as his almost incoherent thoughts of rage continued, the dark fae began responding, shifting its grip on him subtly at first, but then soon it writhed around his now halted body. He noticed and ceased his inner monologue, keeping the anger close to his heart the entire time. _What is this? _he asked himself. The creature had stopped its mirthful looks and hissing laughter as it stared in confusion across the gloom at him. It gesticulated in the manner of one who has snagged a fishing net on a rock and cannot pull it loose, growing angry as it struggled against a force unseen.

Gerald held out his hand, and the deep purple dark fae misted and twirled around it; almost lovingly, he thought. And he sensed a connection within himself to this beautiful ethereal and organic mist. It pulsed with his heartbeat. It pulsed with promise. It pulsed with his intentions. _What is this?_ he repeated, answering shortly after, _This is __**power**_. And he looked back at the creature, this time with a look of hate that no child should ever have been able to convey. He felt his anger rising to the fore again. It filled him with an inner heat that burned away all doubt and fear, leaving nothing but hate and willpower. Out loud, toward the creature, he whispered, "You will all pay." And then shouted, "And _you_ will be the first!"

With a roar of pure murderous intent, Gerald threw his inner fire into the fae, and it flowed up and over him. It flowed into him. And it found what it was seeking, making the link complete. And then it soared forth from him in fiery streaks of deep violet to land squarely in the chest of the constructed fear-wraith. The thing resisted initially, grunting in pain and being knocked back some paces as the fae fire burned into its core. And then it lit up as if from inside. It looked down at its body, some strange form of wonder and fear in its eyes as it grasped at its torso. Its body seemed to expand a bit under the onslaught. And then with a rush of air and a heart stopping **BOOM**, it retracted into its original shape only to release such a burst of energy as would be remarked upon for years to come as a comet that had surely fallen on the Tarrant Estates.

Gerald sat on his ass staring at the place where only moments before a true demonling had stood. Trees for twenty feet surrounding him were gone, simply gone. The sand and dirt of the forest floor turned to black glass underneath his body. _It was a true demonling!_ he thought again. A demonling that _he_ had defeated. And by using a part of himself that was deemed of demonic origin itself. But this kind of power couldn't be of solely demon construct. Not if humans could access it and use it to destroy those self-same demons. He looked at the ground again from where he sat, still covered in its pathways and rivulets of the dark fae. It still flowed to him and caressed him, but in a different manner than it had before this night. He could sense it, feel its presence. And through it, he could feel the presence of other things in the woods. He closed his eyes and focused on this discovery. Oh yes, he would have to explore this ability further. Much further. He opened his eyes and watched the fae play across his hand as he directed it to do so in more and more complicated patterns, mesmerized by this new skill. He smiled to himself. And it wasn't a grin of happiness. It was born of the contemplation of evil deeds and possibilities yet undiscovered. Master this. Yes. Master this, and one day, his family would be sorry. He would live, and happily, as he should, and they…they wouldn't be a problem any longer, would they? Again, the smile graced his lips as the fae continued to hold his gaze, so out of place on one so young. And yet, it fit him then as it settled more firmly upon his countenance. It fit him then…or was it forever?


	8. Light

Summary: Damien continues to dream of Gerald's past. Someone new enters his young life. Y'all are gonna see me re-use some bits of a previous story I wrote at times during this fic. I wrote a much shorter flashback version of Gerald's past a good while ago, and there are parts within it that I feel are essential to his development. So if you think you've heard this plot line before, you kind of have, only it comprised maybe a whole paragraph in the original fic.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Light**

He thought often of the night of his enlightening. It had been months, yet the excitement never faded while he practiced in secret. There had been so much energy charged into those few hours, and he savored the discovery of his gift over and over. Or rather, the re-discovery of it. It had always been there, he knew, but it had been buried deep, so deep. Years of suppressing his adept talents had stunted his ability's growth to the point that only his adept's special vision was present. And that only because there was no actual way to be rid of it. However, as long as he had never acknowledged his vision of the ebb and flow of the fae constantly surrounding and immersed in the very fabric of Erna, he was able to hide this one flaw. Flaw? Why did people not understand? Here was evidence that his race was actually finally adapting to the cruelties this planet put forth, and yet they spurned it.

Gerald knew from his history studies that this had ever been the way of mankind. Things they couldn't comprehend were either subjugated or destroyed. Utterly. Be it natural, manmade, or even a fellow man, any inconsistencies with the known were always persecuted. This adaptation of mankind would be a long time in finding acceptance. He sighed inwardly. They could change the very material of this world with only their beliefs if they so chose. His small measure of affecting the fae was proof of what a _single_ adept could do. What if hundreds, or better yet thousands, bent their will toward the betterment of mankind? The magnitude of change they could bring about was staggering, especially for an eleven year old's limited perspective. But this, as with most of his ideas nowadays, would have to wait until he was older to pursue.

The prospects of him actually achieving adulthood were better than they had ever been, though. Recently, Simon had been required to spend more and more of his time with their father, learning the house business and management in preparation for the day he took over. Roderick and Berndt would be joining the ranks of King Gannon's military forces within the next few weeks. Not that they volunteered for this. Harrod had decided that the manly thing to do would be to have military men in the family as well. This would reflect well with the king on the Tarrant's commitment to his campaigns. Avery and Timony, being the youngest besides himself, were also the poorest pupils, and so Harrod was going to foster them out to various noble houses over the next four or so years of their lives in order to expose them to new tutors and open their eyes to the rest of the realm. Jasul had been left out of the planning, as he was too quick tempered to foster out and risk embarrassing the Tarrants. And he certainly would find no high ranking in the military with his poor disposition and attitude. And so he would remain, providing company and socialization to Simon and learning to host social gatherings and whatnot. Perhaps Harrod thought to make of him an advisor to the future Neocount? Whatever the reasoning, Gerald was glad of the respite. He was eating better than he ever had (two eggs this morning!). Most of the time he even got to eat twice per day. For certain it was not the most illustrious fare, but he had learned that he could time his entrance just right so that everyone else had left the table. Then he could grab what was available before the servants cleared the dishes and retreat somewhere to consume it. And perhaps most important of all, his body was finally able to heal uninterrupted. If he were so inclined any longer, he might have smiled.

Standing up from his reclining point on a hill overlooking the road into town, he watched as a small handcart made a wobbly path on the road, propelled by a very small woman. _Something must be wrong with one of the wheels_, he thought to himself as the cart veered suddenly left and teetered before halting altogether. Ah, not a woman, he saw now, but a girl. And the young girl, of about his age, perhaps a year older, came around to the cart's front and kicked the wheel that was under suspicion. And then she promptly cursed in a most unladylike manner at the pain that shot through her foot, hopping up and down. It would be funny, if Gerald still held any laughter within himself. As it was, his humor tended toward the morose and dark nowdays.

Still, he felt a certain pity for the girl as she struggled to pull the cart straight so she could examine the damage. And so he headed down the hillside, not sure of exactly what he could do but determined to try something. Walking briskly, he made quick observations of her form as he approached. Her straw colored hair was wind-whipped and sweaty, though the temperature was only mildly warm for a spring day. Her tanned cheeks were ruddy from fighting with the cart, and her ice blue eyes showed surprise at having been observed when she finally noted his approach. "Well that's just perfect!" she said to no one in particular, pushing at the cart as if to shove it away. "I have to go and get a busted wheel and then a busted foot; and to top it off, I even had an audience. Bravo to me!" She stood up fully, shaking her head and wiping her hands on her sides. "And who might my audience be, I wonder?" she asked lightly in his direction.

Gerald sketched a somewhat hasty bow and said, "No one who hasn't had worse things happen to himself; and in front of far larger audiences." He finished with a smile he hoped was genuine. Nothing about social interaction came naturally anymore to him. She eyed him for a moment, and then seemed to make up her mind. "Well, I'm Jerilyn. Jerilyn Tolther. But please do call me Jeri, as it offends my father to no end, and that seems to be the most I can do for him anymore," she finished with a wave to the cart. Gerald stepped forward a bit, eyeing the cart, and said, "I'm Gerald. Er. Tarrant. Gerald Tarrant." He winced at how strange that had come out, but she didn't seem to have noticed. She was staring at him and the direction he had come from a bit funny, though, so he hastened to say, "I was walking up there and saw you. I came down to see if I could be of any help, although I'm no cartwright or wheelsmith by any means."

She sighed, and walked over to a patch of grass. "Well, have at it as you will. I'm certainly not getting anywhere with _beating_ it back into shape." And she sat down in a dejected manner. "My father has me bring these clocks and constructs of his to market every week. He's got a bad leg and can't work like most of the crafters and such. He's slower. And with mother gone from the consumption last year, I'm all we have to bring them here. Except now I can't even do that." As she carried on, Gerald noted a tinge of almost-panic to her voice, though she hid it well. Why else be so talkative with a stranger? This was obviously of some great import to her family's livelihood, and he unquestionably knew what it was like to feel helpless in the face of bad turns of events.

He let her continue speaking as he examined the wheel. One of the cog pins and spokes was broken straight through. This would take much time and effort to repair, and more skill than he possessed. Not to mention what it would cost. And looking at the girl now with a new set of appraising eyes, he figured she wouldn't be able to easily produce the necessary sum. From her well-worn traveling shoes to her threadbare cap, she looked perhaps a week from poverty to him. But for someone with such ill prospects, she seemed to keep a good, if sardonic, face on things. He wished _he_ could do so well at mimicking happiness.

He kept glancing askance at her to ascertain that she wasn't paying any heed to what he was doing before placing his hand to the broken parts of the wheel. He set the belief in his mind that the parts were just as whole as they had been but minutes ago and pulled from the earth fae at his feet. He was immediately glad to be slightly sheltered from her view, as the earth fae pulsed once between his hands, a brilliant green, and then turned a more subdued hue of pastel as it oozed and flowed around the wooden pieces. He realized she had stopped talking at that moment and looked up. She was standing as if to approach.

"Oh, don't come over just yet," he said quickly, drawing a strange look from her. "It's just, this looks like delicate work and it might slip up if two were to give it their attention." She listened to him and seemed to mouth the phrase 'delicate work' in a bit confused fashion. And why shouldn't she? How was a wheel spoke made of anything delicate? He cursed himself for a lackwit and hurriedly tried to finish the Working. He hadn't ever completed a Mending (his own choice of naming) on this scale before, so he was a bit apprehensive at first when he let go of the fae. Thus far, he had only managed to reconnect pieces of yarn and string. This took much more concentration, and he was almost sweating when he finished, although that could have been from the stress of being observed.

"I think I may have got it," he said, and she came around to him. "It was just slipped out I guess and required some finagling to fit back in place." She looked at the spoke and cog, and then turned to him with questioning eyes, "This was broke clean through before. I saw it only briefly, but it was. Clean through." Shock ran through him. He hadn't even thought of the fact that she might have assessed the damage herself! How ignorant! He stuttered, "Surely you are mistaken, Miss. I saw no breaks. Just slipped the things back into place." And she looked about to speak again, but caught herself, her cool blue eyes absorbing his uncomfortable manner. "Very well then. Let's say I believe you. I can hardly argue the results, and now I'll be able to bring my father's pieces to the vendor." She smiled then, and offered out her hand. "Thank you. Really, thank you." He breathed an inward sigh of relief. He took the proffered hand and bowed in mock gallantry, drawing a giggle from her.

They spoke for another few minutes about the market and town, how she wished she could keep going and see other places. She asked one time in jest, "Are you always out and about wandering the hills here in the middle of the day? Don't you have family or friends to be larking about with?" But he had replied quite seriously, "They will not even know I am gone." He then looked away as he said even softer, so that she strained to interpret his words, "They wouldn't care if they did." And she had let up immediately after that, as if sensing the strain below his surface. More frivolities passed, and he found her to be quite witty with a strong sarcastic streak. It felt good to finally talk with someone who wasn't trying to belittle him. And then she needed to go.

"But I come through here the same day every week, you know. If you're out a roving in the hills again, you could keep me company. It's tiresome trudging this road forever and ever with no friendly face to wake you up." He smiled and agreed, surprising himself with his actual feeling of commitment to meet her again. She left then, taking up her cart and pushing it anew in the direction of the town. He watched her go for a long while, thinking he hadn't felt so useful and appreciated in…had he ever? He found himself looking forward to their next meeting. And for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel completely numb. To Jeri, he had been a normal person, and had been of assistance to her even. He tried to hold on to this good feeling as he made his way back to the keep later that evening. And in the wake of this tide of joy, the blackness growing within his soul halted its flight. It did not dissipate or leave, though. It paused…as if waiting.


	9. Awake

Summary: Deeper and deeper. Vryce is having issues when he is awake.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement. The quote at the end about genteel and seductive is from Black Sun Rising.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Awake**

Vryce awoke to an early morning light caressing his face with its soft warmth. _How did he ever go all those centuries without this?_ he thought of Tarrant as he enjoyed the feeling. Stretching, he felt suddenly that he was not where he had originally fallen asleep. His eyes flew open, and he found himself splayed across a reclining sofa that faced the eastern windows of the library. _How weird_. He had never been much of a sleepwalker. The dream-memories must be affecting his body as well as his mind. But he supposed that should have been anticipated. He looked around himself but didn't see Tarrant anywhere near. Neither did he feel the biting chill that would announce the other man's presence in the absence of visual detection.

He pushed himself out of his makeshift bed and stretched deeply, pondering the latest revelations of his dreams. At the point just before he woke up, Gerald had met the girl again the next week when she came through with her still-functioning cart. _What was her name? Ah, Jeri!_ They had sat on the side of the road eating some apples she had brought with her that a neighbor had bestowed on her prior to setting out for the day. As Gerald rarely had access to food that he could take his time to eat, the crisp, sweet fruits had been a true delight of his day. But not quite as much as Jeri herself. They had exchanged a bit of their pasts, Jeri more so than Tarrant. And then had moved on to more interesting topics, such as the Hallowed Eve Festival. They discussed costume possibilities and festival activities of mutual interest. And the young Hunter had laughed…_laughed_! When had Damien ever heard such an expression of joy spring forth from the man he knew now? As it was, he barely even chuckled at the most dark and macabre of ironies.

This girl had truly lifted the poor boy's spirit, and Damien was glad of it. It was horrifying seeing someone so young become as morose as one four times his age and twice again as miserable in soul. For a while before this meeting had occurred, Damien had figured that this was it; this was where the descent into darkness would begin. Especially after Gerald had realized the power at his command! However, that had not been as it had seemed. The ex-priest had thought for sure that Gerald would almost immediately set about him with destructive intentions upon next meeting with one of his brothers. But it was not to be that simple for the growing adept.

Special amulets were created after the first 100 years of the colonization that could repel fae-born attacks of most sorts. Damien had heard of these mentioned in his studies as an acolyte but had never heard a first-hand accounting of them. Only the very wealthy could procure them, he knew, and _they_ were not likely to put down on paper their strengths or weaknesses. The formula for these amulets lost its effectiveness against the fae after about 50 years, though. The fae, being the adaptive organic substance that it is, found ways around these blocking agents, and once again the fae-born creatures were able to access those folk previously denied them. However, in the time period that Gerald lived in, these had still functioned quite well.

The Tarrant family all had at least one, and they wore them at all times apparently. Excepting, of course, Gerald, who had had no idea if he had _ever_ been in possession of one. All he knew was that he certainly did not have one now. One of his siblings had most likely stolen or broken it long ago. And so Gerald had simply resorted to practicing on his own in secret, building his strengths and ferreting out his weaknesses. It was slow muddling, but progress was being made.

Damien's dream had concluded with the boy's brilliant laughter, so open and genuine. He wished that same humanity would reemerge eventually, but he was happy for now that Tarrant at least wasn't capturing women any longer for his hunts. And so, satisfied with his early morning contemplations, he ambled on out to the courtyard for a little jog and some calisthenics prior to breakfast. He would find Gerald after his exercise and a bath.

As he passed through the large entryway, he caught someone off in the corner of his vision coming down the double staircase…and his heart froze. _Senzei!_ His body whipped in place to face his old traveling companion…his old, _dead_, traveling companion. But there was no one there… What? He looked all around, the hairs on his arms standing up, but no one was in evidence. He _knew_ what he had seen. The person's bearing and gait had been unmistakably that of Senzei Reese. There, but not there. He calmed himself with slow, deep breaths. He told himself he was just off a bit from waking in a strange location. And he probably hadn't slept all that well anyway if those dream-memories had kept on until just before he woke. Tarrant was supposed to turn them off after a few hours so his mind could return to a normal state of sleep. He'd ask him about that later.

He shook off the eerie feeling from moments before and marched out to the courtyard. Finding a good expanse of stones, he dropped to the ground and began a series of push-ups and abdominal routines, shoving the whole creepy episode out of his thoughts. It took a few minutes, but soon the sweat was pouring from him as he increased the tempo and difficulty of the maneuvers he was performing. The incident not forgotten, but at least not at the forefront of his mind for the time being. He closed his eyes as he finished a set of one-armed push-up planks, and when he opened them he gasped, lost his balance, and fell forward into a stream of blood that was working its way under and past him. It was still warm and stuck to him as if jelly-like. He scrambled out of it and stood up, looking for the fountain so he could leap into it. And then he noticed the stream of red fluid wasn't there anymore. He looked down at his chest and abdomen, then his hands. All clean.

Heart pounding, he ran back inside the keep, stopping in the great entryway once more. He closed his eyes for a moment and focused on the bond between Tarrant and himself, feeling it tug him toward the observatory. Opening his eyes, he scanned his surroundings slowly. Something was definitely not right. Things seemed…how could he describe it? Darker? More malignant than they should? But they were just the same as before even so. Maybe it was just in his head? And with this thought, not as comforting as he would like it to be, he jogged off in the direction of the observatory, heading to the top of the keep.

Tarrant watched Damien as he thrashed around on the stonework far below him. _The blood was a nice touch,_ he thought to himself. _That ought to get him paranoid enough that he won't be leaving the keep any time soon_. Which was exactly as Tarrant wished it. With Damien a captive of his own imagination, the Hunter would be free to enter towns in the surrounding area and kill as he wished, all the time keeping the secret from his lover. _Perfect_, he mused to himself.

Tarrant turned with feigned surprise as Damien crashed onto the observatory balcony. The old earth instruments of star gazing were still in their occupied spaces of years before. Sunlight gleamed off of the telescope's lens as the ex-priest approached with heaving breaths. "Damien, what is it?" He glided over to the big man, a face of concern masking his deceit. "You look…well, you look out of sorts, my priest," the Hunter purred in absolute innocence. Damien took a few moments to catch his breath before replying, "I think there's something weird going on with my mind or something, Gerald. Just now, in the courtyard, I thought I saw blood all over the stones; I even _felt_ it." He held out his hands as if to show the adept. "But it wasn't there when I looked again. And I woke up in the library this morning." Almost back in a regular breathing pattern, he asked, "Do you think it's something to do with your memories?"

Tarrant had already prepared his placating speech and opened his mouth to let it out when suddenly Damien continued speaking, "And before, in the entryway, I thought I saw Senzei. He was coming down the left staircase, but when I focused on him, he was gone!" This stopped Tarrant short, his eyes narrowing. _Senzei?_ he thought, perplexed. _I surely had no part in that_. _Hmmm…_ But he spoke reassurances to Vryce, claiming the blame lay with the Forest itself. Surely, his mortal frame could not withstand the evil pull of the Forest for long without it affecting his mind? Staying within the keep walls for now would be best, at least until this is all figured out. Right? And Damien, in a numb sort of way, just nodded his acceptance.

Tarrant placed a light kiss upon the warrior's brow, and then pulled the other man to him. "You'll be fine, Vryce. You'll see. Nothing here will harm you as long as I am master. Nothing." And Damien leaned into the embrace after a while, accepting the seeming safety and security of those cold, strong arms. And Tarrant smiled inwardly; a secretive happiness, not to be shared. _Oh, my priest, what part of 'genteel and seductive' did you miss all those years ago? _And he folded Damien deeper into his arms. There would be no letting go…


	10. Calm

Summary: Gerald and Jeri spend some time together. He begins to feel more confidence in his abilities. Damien is sick.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement. The quote at the end about genteel and seductive is from Black Sun Rising.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

Calm

It happened gradually, but Gerald felt himself becoming closer to Jeri each time they met. It was strange at first, as he hadn't been in friendly human company in some time. He felt as though he were going through the motions, sure every second that she would turn to him and ask what was wrong with him. But she never did. In fact, she had to be one of the most nonjudgmental people he had ever met. She attacked everything with curiosity, but did not scorn the subject when the results turned out not to her liking. If anything, that would turn out to further intrigue her and cause more serious inquiries. It made her an invaluable ally and confidante when he needed to speak of things he hated about his family that he had no one else in whom he could confide. And as he attempted to fall sleep on his stained mattress on this cool night, his mind drifted over a few times in the past two years that he considered significant to their relationship.

He remembered the first time she had figured out to which family exactly he had been referring all these times. It had been about six weeks since their first encounter. They had been in a clearing in the woods, seated beside a massive new-oak tree. The remnants of honeysuckles scattered around them. "You're a Tarrant? As in, _the_ Merentha Tarrants?" as if there were any others. And so he confirmed her inquiry without any real commentary, just a curt nod of his head. What had followed after had been a detailed discussion of his family's horrors as she delved into each and every hidden nook and cranny of his soul. He could never find it in himself to tell her no. And so he spoke, hesitantly at first, but eventually he carried forth a continuous monotone narration of his short and eventful life. Things he had heard about through his siblings' rough teasing, things he had seen done to the serving staff or peasants, things done to him… It was a lot to bring out all at once, and soon he was begging for a remission of the conversation, unable to keep up the façade of uncaring. She had looked at him squarely then, saying, "Well, I certainly don't see how such awful people brought about such a person as you, Gerald. The picture you paint is…terrible, cruel even. I won't ask about it again unless you first volunteer, alright? I think I've heard enough to form an outside opinion for now." And she had moved on as if nothing had ever happened.

He waited for a few minutes before responding to her change in topic, and interrupted her in mid-sentence of the next subject she had jumped upon. "How do you do that?" he asked her. "Do what?" came the reply. He stopped her from picking the grass beside her dress with a hand on her forearm. Mustering all the seriousness his 12 year old body could collect, he continued, "Speak to me as if I matter? Listen to me when I talk of silly things…and horrible things?" And his voice would have shook if he hadn't lowered it to a whisper then, "Speak to me as if I'm a person; as if I'm _someone_…" He trailed off while looking away from her, growing embarrassed of himself. Well, that hadn't gone quite as smoothly as he had intended, but at least he hadn't completely broken down.

She dropped the sprigs of grass she had been handling and placed her hand on top of his, which brought his gaze back to her own, "You listen to me, Gerald. You _listen_ to me, and the rest of them be damned." Her voice was low and filled with an edge she hadn't displayed to him before. Her blue eyes were hard as stones. "You are brilliant. Even a plain peasant girl like me can see that. You are made for great things. And there is nothing they can do to take your intelligence away from you. Play their games for now if you must, but remember when you're older that you are meant for better. You _are_." And she had stared long and hard at him until he had nodded his acceptance and made a feeble agreement to her declaration. "Now," she said as she pushed up from the ground and dusted off her traveling skirts, "What should I bring for our lunch next week?" And things went on after that as if they had never spoken of it.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Damien awoke with bleary eyes, his vision blurred and unfocused. His body was on fire. No, not fire, but burning with fever. He groaned aloud, which brought Gerald to attention beside him. The adept's icy hand descended upon his brow like a gust of glacial wind. But to Damien, it felt entirely too wonderful at the moment in contrast to his febrile body. "You have been sleeping for two days, Damien," came a soft voice. "I brought you here that first day, and you slept instantly. But you haven't wakened since." The voice paused for a second and a sound of movement could be heard. Then something touched the ex-priest's lips. "Here, drink. Your body desperately needs fluid right now." Damien could only manage a feeble, "Unghhhh," before sipping what he could from the cup offered.

_What is going on here?_ he thought. Or at least he tried to, so fuddled were his thought patterns. What came to the fore was more like a generalized sense of confusion. But then Gerald's hand was back, and his voice was a strong constant for Damien to focus in on and draw strength from. "You will be fine, Vryce. Fine. You rest again, now. I can see this has taken much from you," and though the adept's voice held, inside Tarrant felt nothing like the surety he was attempting to display. And as Vryce slid back into his crafted dreamworld, Tarrant stood and began to pace. He stopped at one point to observe the ebb and flow of the dark fae within the room. All was as it should be, with the exception of the gathering dark surrounding Damien's own form. So pale. He looked so pale there on the bed, contrasted by the deep purple-black of the night's special fae.

Tarrant began to pace again, his thoughts racing ahead of where other mortals would have faltered. _Unprecedented_. Yes. And so there was no security to be found in the past. What was happening here was unique to them. Their bond having been completed prior to Mt Shaitan and then their later intimacy must have a large part in this. And the more he thought on it, the more certain he became. Because Tarrant had witnessed an affliction of this like before. _Oh yes_, he thought. _Perhaps it occurred more hastily back then, but it seems of the same fabric. The same warp and weave_. And then he shuddered, remembering the instance he was comparing Vryce's predicament to. And he feared for his lover, for the transformation of his own undead existence had left scars upon his soul that reached deep, so deep, and still gave even one such as himself nightmares at times…. Looking once more at the ailing warrior's frame hidden from sight under the coverlets, he wondered what dreams would come to him this night.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Another notable moment spent with Jeri was when he had finally decided he would confess to her his gift. It still gave him jitters just remembering the courage it had taken him to be able to admit to her that he was damned and cursed. Damned at 13! He had hoped fervently that she would look past the affliction, but he thought he owed it to her to let her know whom she consorted with. He dreaded what would ensue, but he knew he had to tell her at some point.

"I'm going to show you something today," he said as she made to get the basket off of her cart. She looked over her shoulder at him curiously, golden hair shining with the sunlight dancing across it. She would probably be fair to look upon if she ever took a notion to bother with those things. But she never did, and that was another reason Gerald found her so interesting. No other girls his age acted as she did around him. And as she went back to rummaging around in the hand cart, he went over to her and said, "No wait. Before you get unpacked, okay? I've got to show you this." And something in the unease of his tone must have shown through, because she instantly stopped her digging and turned to him.

"Gerald, what is it that's gotten you all weird so sudden?" she asked in a slight tone of concern. "It's not your family is it?" she quickly asked after, her eyes going wide with fear for him. They both knew what would happen to him if his family ever found that he derived any sort of pleasure from these outings. They thought him merely hiding somewhere in the keep grounds. Out of sight, out of mind. He shook his head in the negative, adjusting his tunic so as to not look her in the eye. "No, no, not them. It's just something you need to know about me." He looked up at her, a half-hidden pain behind his shining gray eyes, "Something bad." All of his misgivings about telling her were rising to the surface now, and he was almost set to back down. Seeing this reticence, she rushed to reassure him with her words, but he stopped her. "No, Jeri. Just…just listen to me." And he stood there trying to think of what to say. He had had an explanation prepared, but it had seemingly slipped his grasp at the concern that shone forth from her earnest eyes.

An idea struck him then. He'd know later if it was the right one. Instead of words, he'd speak with action. "Not listen then. Here, I'll _show_ you. Watch, Jeri." And he held out his hands, palms upward, and gazed intently into them. His trepidation made it take longer than it normally would, but after a few moments, it began. Only a tiny gasp issued forth from her when the earth fae began to curl up and around his body, ending up within his palms as a shining green fire. He held it there, focusing on it alone, too scared to look at the disgust that surely must be present on her face. And then he was pulled out of his staring reverie by her hand on his arm. When had she gotten so close?! He looked upon her and waited for the condemnation to begin. She was staring intently at the flickering flames, entranced, paying him no heed whatsoever. Its light played across her features merrily.

Gerald began to speak first but was quickly interrupted by her, with her voice in a low and passionate whisper. "Gerald, _this_…this is…_beautiful_. How do you do it?" And her eyes looked from the fire and up into his, questing. He grasped for an adequate answer, fumbling at her lack of anger. "I just do. I've…always been able to; but I've had to hide it, because, you know…" he trailed off. She took a step back and a deep breath besides, looking down at her boots. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a shower of gold waves. When she spoke again, it was clearly straight from the heart and meant only for him. "What you've got there, Gerald, is _amazing_. You shouldn't have to hide it at all. It's wonderful even!" She brightened suddenly as if an idea had struck her. "Is there anything else you can do with it?"

Her intense inquiry and curious nature had won over again. And Gerald laughed out loud as the tension drained out of him. He spent the next hour showing her exactly what he had been practicing at, and she absorbed it as a sponge does water. Beautiful imagery and lights played across the field for her. He moved objects hither and yon for her amusement. He even levitated her some from the ground, but had to set her down quickly after she realized that the view would afford him an excellent glimpse of her underthings if he so chose. He protested sorely at the thought, for in truth it had not even crossed his mind. And it was then that he knew he had truly found in her a friend. Not a fair-weather acquaintance, but a true friend. And there was no way he would ever let something as silly as physical things possibly complicate and ruin what they had, right here, right now. He wouldn't trade this kind of companionship for anything. Ever.

And as Gerald lay there reminiscing over these memories, he was struck by a strange feeling. It was odd. And unnerving. It was almost as though he was afraid of an unknown _something_. He didn't have a name for this feeling other than a foreboding sense of ill. Like a child feels when they are about to peer under their dark bed. As if his happiness had set off a chain of events to begin that could not be halted. Would not be halted. And as he drifted off into slumber eventually, the thought of 'calm before the storm' floated across his consciousness.


	11. Darkness

Summary: A bit of mystery surrounds Damien's illness. A young Gerald learns he may soon be free of his family for a time.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of C.S. Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Darkness**

Tarrant stood silently, nothing in the room moving. It was as if even the inanimate objects could sense the warring distress and delight within his soul. Darkness fought with light for supremacy in this somber space he had appointed for Damien's sick bay. The adept's lithe form was taught with tension at the implications his thoughts held. His suppositions were based solely on inference and gut feeling, but he knew…he _knew_. And he had no idea how to react to the revelation. How did it happen? And why? And then with an inward groan he thought of what the so-still form on the mattress would do when he understood, when he fully accepted and comprehended the depth of Tarrant's innocent betrayal. He would need to find answers for the ex-priest before it came to that. And so he stood vigil, thinking, watching the changes as they took place in the case that he might be of errant judgment. Cataloging them as they occurred and filing away each new revelation that was made apparent. Again, he noted the stillness of the room; the stillness of the form on the bed beside him. Distantly he registered that a cold had pervaded this space. An unearthly chill that had no basis in natural phenomena. He hadn't noticed before as his own body was of a similar temperature. Still, he waited, and watched. The figure on the bed was unmoving. He had watched Damien's chest for what seemed like an eternity now…and it, like the room, was still…

OOOOOOOOOOO

Gerald approached their usual meeting spot with a gladdened heart on this cool Fall day. He had excellent news to share, though it was also to be saddening as well. He had recently been informed by his father that he was to be sent away to train with the warrior monks of Abbey Sircluth, which was most noted for its enormous library and simultaneous dedication to both the martial arts and the scientific. His father had finally realized that something had to be done with his 14 year old disappointment of a son, and Harrod thought that a little martial discipline would be just the thing. Perhaps a man might result from this regretful boy of his yet. Especially since the monks were also extremely harsh in their training, to the point that not just a few initiates died during the first few months. All Gerald could focus on, though, was that he would finally be away from his family and all the evil and oppression they represented to him. His brothers had ceased their sexual assaults on him once he had turned about ten and wasn't quite so effeminate in looks; though he was still a beautiful creature by any gender's measure, a constant source of anger for his mother.

His fortune was finally changing! Escape was at hand! And even if the route of escape was to be thoroughly covered in brambles and thorns, still he would persevere and reach the other side, cuts and all. He could remake himself in the abbey with no one there who would be privy to the cruelties he had had forced upon him here in this private hell. The downside to this approaching freedom was that he and Jeri wouldn't see each other for what would probably be years. And this sat like a stone in his belly. How could he possibly enjoy his new place and good fortune without her smiling face and inquisitive nature there beside him? Not to mention her acerbic and sharp wit! He promised himself he would write her twice a week, but he still felt this would be exceedingly insufficient to show the devotion he felt to their friendship. He had no one else in all the world who cared for him.

He didn't have the answers, but maybe she would. And so he picked up his pace again as he rounded the bend into the little copse of trees where she would have their picnic set up. Only there was no blanket upon the ground. And no one else's presence was in evidence. He looked at the sky. No, he wasn't really early. Maybe she was late? It was an awfully long walk from her home to here. Still, he continued on past the clearing with its encircling greenery and peered through into the wooded path behind it that she generally approached from nowdays. He walked through the tree line, going from bright autumn light to cool dark abruptly so that his eyes had a moment of adjusting to do

And there he saw the overturned cart. The scattered items for the market. The blanket with red upon it… And then his eyes lit on Jasul a little ways up the path. He was standing over Jerilyn with a wicked grin on his face. Blood smeared his shirt and cheek. Part of one ear had been torn and red rivulets ran down from it. He looked up at Gerald and smiled even wider. "Your little bitch had some fight in her," he said as he pointed at a barely cringing Jerilyn. Her face was bruised, and her clothing torn near off her frame. Gerald could barely breathe. He felt the cold stone in his stomach begin to burn hotly. It grew in proportion to his hatred for his family, and then exceeded it. He felt the call of the fae as he prepared to gather it to himself. Society be damned! He was going to show this bastard what pain really was!

But then something clasped around his neck tightly. His hands reached up for it, but he was knocked on the side of his head hard enough to see light dance in his vision before he could investigate, and he fell to the ground with a dull cry. Simon stepped around him with a large rock in his hand. Incidentally, it was now a bit reddened with Gerald's blood. The heir to Merentha sneered down at his defeated sibling as Gerald stared around himself in horror as if looking for something that was present only moments before. "Yes, brother dearest," Simon purred. "We know of your 'talent' and what you can do with it. Did you think you could keep this a secret?" And he laughed. Jasul took the cue to do so as well, though he was barely intelligent enough to discern the meaning of why he was supposed to laugh.

"What's the matter, bratling?" asked Simon when he had finished his mirth, "Can't find your demon powers? Yes, father paid good money to have that contraption commissioned. It effectively neutralizes you so-called _adepts_ and makes you so much more receptive. _Safe_." He was right! The fae was as if it had never existed to him! And Gerald felt the old fear building inside of him as it had used to when he was little. Helplessness. Desperation. He glanced at Jerilyn with her torn dress and bloody mouth. And now someone else was in danger, too!

Simon saw his glance. "Mm, yes, I've had my fun with that one, but I don't think Jasul was quite done, were you?" Realizing that he was suddenly the focus of everyone's attention again, Jasul smiled and grabbed at Jerilyn, yanking her by the leg to drag her closer. "Stop it! Leave…!" Gerald tried to yell, but he was caught up in his eldest sibling's vice grip suddenly, and then had cloth jammed in his mouth so hard he could barely dare to breath. Tears flooded his vision, and he moaned against the fabric.

Simon looked around and then dragged Gerald over to a nearby tree. Of course this wasn't difficult to accomplish with his full grown bulk against Gerald's slim form. And soon Gerald was secured against the tree trunk by knotted twine. He struggled feebly for a moment and then stopped as Simon spoke again. "Do what you want with her, Jasul. I'll be heading back now. Father will want me at his side for the trade delegation to arrive today." And without further ado, he walked off as if he hadn't just committed crimes against humanity and his own blood.

Gerald looked anxiously toward Jasul, who promptly set to raping poor Jerilyn once more not even ten feet from where Gerald sat restrained. Her eyes stared straight into his the entire time. They did not plead, and neither did she. At one point he thought he saw her mouth the words "I'm sorry" to him, but such was the violence of her motion, he couldn't be sure. Gerald wanted so badly to close his eyes and shut this out, but her own continued to seek his as the horrific act was carried out, and so he felt obligated to share in her pain. Perhaps his being aware helped her accept this in some way and get through it.

Jasul tired of his play quickly, though, and threw her to the ground about a foot away from Gerald. She was covered in dirt, blood, and other remnants of violent acts. From the angle she had landed, he couldn't see her face, and it was clear she was too weak and pained to turn over. Jasul was rummaging about in her cart. He threw out anything that didn't please him over his shoulder. And after a short moment or two, he found what he sought, holding it up to the light for inspection. It was a bread knife, mostly dull by nature. He saw Gerald looking and gave him an almost shy smile. So tinglingly haunting and strange was that look.

And before Gerald could register what was going to happen, Jasul took the few steps back to them in quick, powerful strides, grabbed Jerilyn up by the hair, and pressed the blade to her ribs. "She was a fairly pretty bitch, weren't she?" he said as he plunged the dull knife through the left side of her mid ribs. He pushed her across Gerald's lap, grunted, and left as abruptly as any of his other actions. He discarded the knife as he left, seeming to enjoy the run of blood along its silver length before dropping it to the ground. Jerilyn lay very still across Gerald's legs, shallow breaths coming painfully.

He struggled and screamed against his captivity, but there was no use. The collar had disconnected him from the fae somehow. Probably a variation of the ones worn by his family. He looked down as Jerilyn sluggishly rolled off of his legs and slowly dragged herself on the ground to the abandoned knife. Then, once settling it within her palm, she pulled herself back to him, reaching for the twine encircling him. Each movement seemed to take eons to complete. She could barely work her hands as they shook, but she got one line sawed through before collapsing against the rootwork and dirt at his feet.

With this small gift of slack she had given, he was able to wriggle enough to create room to negotiate his way out of the restricting coils, and from there to her side. He was almost afraid to handle her. He gently rolled her off of her abdomen, and he sat at her head. A trickle of fresh blood ran from one corner of her mouth. The other side had dried blood from Jasul's ear plastered across it, a macabre display of violent art. Her eyes were unfocused, but she said his name in a whisper.

He leaned down to catch her words, and he attempted his own apologies, which ripped through his spirit. It was his fault. _His_ fault! This is what friendship earns! But through his turbid thoughts, he heard her faint whisper of, "Great things, Gerald." Another slow and slightly burbling breath, and then, "Believe it." And then her chest was still, and her eyes gave up the captured soul behind them as she slipped away into a place where he couldn't yet follow. The horror of this day descended on him without mercy, clawing its way through his mind and heart with abandon. It sought who he was, and remade him into something else. Something harder. But for the time being, on the surface at least, he was just a boy who cried over the injustices of an uncaring world. Sobs that choked him wracked his thin frame, nauseating at the same time. _This is friendship_, he thought. _Remember this_. He repeated it over and over in his mind.

And when he finally regained control of his emotions, he gazed upon his first, and last, friend's face. He brushed the dirt away from her eyes and straightened her hair. And he stared at her for some time, as if to set this memory over all the other happy ones they had together. His eyes dried. His limbs ceased their trembling. And his soul…his soul…it wreathed itself in death and hate. He closed his eyes and felt the cold wind of the coming winter blow across his tear-streaked and sweaty face. His golden brown hair slowly waving as it, too, was touched by the chill. And when he opened his eyes again, they were no longer the clear gray of a young and hopeful adolescent. They were the metallic silver of a sword's edge. He looked down at Jerilyn once more, and then up at the path back to the keep. He reached up and touched the collar at his throat and felt a slight static tingle warn him away from it. Emotions, thoughts, and memories flooded and scrambled through his consciousness as he traveled slowly home. Friendship had gotten him this. It warred within his brain, tumbling through and around his venomous thoughts. And her voice was clear as his own within his mind, but eventually, one of them won out: 'Play their games.' **Murder**. 'This is beautiful.' **Pain**. 'What you've got there is amazing.' **Evil**. 'You are made for great things.'..… **Hate**. And darkness seemed to follow him as he walked. Truly, though it had never been recorded that the dark fae had been present during the light of the day, this day saw it forcefully pulled through the crust of the earth itself in each place where the young boy stepped. And though it dissipated almost the second the sunlight made contact, still it came upwards to feel his touch. And so the boy walked onward in darkness.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Damien awoke screaming…..


	12. Push

Summary: Damien awakes to a frightening revelation.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of C.S. Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Push**

Damien Vryce came awake with the clarity of a thunderclap. His eyes absorbed the details of the delicately carved and mural covered ceiling high above as they snapped open in an instant that seemed to him an eternity. New awareness blossomed across his DNA and brought him screaming into the waking world with a tenacious and full-throated roar. The covers lying over him entrapped him, and so he threw them back in the same movement that had him leaping over the foot railing of the bed. He landed as if he hadn't just been deeply lost in a slumber like unto death, both feet underneath and one hand to the floor to steady himself. Looking up at his surroundings, his inner compass swirled.

He spun at the sound of his name originating from behind and to the side. Tarrant. He took in the adept's tall and graceful form for what felt like the first time. Details he never remembered noticing before leapt out at him fiercely. Indeed, it seemed that many things in this waking world were vying for his attention at the same time, and he felt inundated with the magnitude of it all. He grimaced and turned his head to the side as he stood to face the man in whose dreams he walked.

"Damien," came the soft entreaty. "Listen, and focus on me. You are feeling strangely, I imagine, and focus is what will keep you sane…for the time being." Closer came the adept as he spoke, finally reaching a point just in front of the ex-priest. "How are you feeling? The fever that took you was something I've seen only once before." Tarrant paused as if remembering. "It was…life-altering, as I recall." And those silver eyes pierced his own for a moment, but he could say nothing as of yet. It was as though he had awoken to a new world, with new rules that he hadn't learned nor adapted to yet. He struggled inwardly to find the words to convey his thoughts. And, finally, he settled for his usual blunt, and succinct, approach. "What happened to me? What _**is**_ happening to me?"

Seeing Tarrant's expression flash into uncertainty was something new to him. Had he ever witnessed it before? So fast, it was there and gone. But he could perceive those nuances now, whereas before they were just minor facial movements, untrackable, unreadable. The mask had returned to Tarrant's visage, though, and he was again the very definition of cool concern. "Damien," Tarrant began, "the fae here in the Forest. Remember I warned you of it and what it could possibly do to a human soul? It may… I have no approach other than being forthright here." He seemed to search for easier words at that moment. The adept's eyes wandered for a minute before returning to his. An ice-cold hand reached out to his shoulder, or would have, except it wasn't cold at all. Odd.

"The fae may have begun something with you, Damien…or rather, it may have begun something…in you." This caused the warrior's eyes to flash in both consternation and anger as he twisted his shoulder out of the adept's grip. He would not hear of these things. He was a man of the church, and his faith was such that it would shield him from this challenge. "No, Gerald. No. It is you who has changed. Don't you see it? _Feel_ it?" His expression was one of almost panicked hope as he began to string together the changes he saw before him in an order most pleasing indeed. In fact, his mind seemed quicker now. Clearer. The details he had missed before, the facial expressions, the temperature of the man before him…it all led to the change he had wanted all along! Gerald. Closer to human. Closer to _Him_.

But as he stood there gazing at Tarrant, he noticed other things, too. His heart, for one. It wasn't exactly that it wasn't beating, per se. It was more like it was beating _differently_. More slowly. He focused on it for a moment. _Much_ more slowly… And then he looked back at the adept, who stood with almost sad eyes directed his way. No. Not quite sad, although the sadness was present there was something else also. Something…like guilt. He studied the other man further, taking a few steps up to the Hunter, closing the distance that had prevented his next exploration.

He reached out a hand slowly, tentatively, and touched the alabaster cheek of the adept's striking features. No temperature difference. No biting cold. No shock running up his arm…and no frosted breath issuing forth from his own mouth…Oh! He exhaled quickly, as though he had forgotten to breathe for a moment. And still…no frosting of the air occurred in his expirations. And so lost was he in his perusal that he almost didn't notice when the other began speaking.

Softly, seeming as if he were doing so only not to startle or frighten him, Tarrant said, "That was the most disconcerting part I found upon first awakening. Breath seems to be the very necessity of every life form. And so losing that habit often caught me unawares and left me gasping for air that I no longer required. It took many years to fully lose the habit of it. And then, when re-entering the human world years later, I had to remember to let them see me breathe, or else they would know exactly what was sitting beside them in their Daes and Inns. It was as if the process had to be learned all over again." The Hunter paused and gave Damien time to think this over. He seemed as still as he always had. Lifeless, undead. And yet, something was unmistakably different. "Do you understand the import of what I am telling you this for, Vryce?"

It had been there, stirring his fear in the lower parts of his soul all along since his first moment of return. But he had attempted to cover it as best he could. Now, viewed from another perspective, his new observations had different meanings…more sinister than he could have ever imagined. If his heart hadn't been beating so much more slowly, he would have thought it had stopped at these conclusions he was finally reaching. And it was a strange thing, this panic, when one hadn't a need to breathe. The feeling of terror swallowing you up was present, but the accompanying gasps and heart-pounding moments were conspicuously absent. It made him nauseated. He hunched over a bit, looking at the ground and trying to find a steadying breath, except that he didn't have one anymore. He wondered if he could even puke. The thought of being an undead being like a vampire had no part in his life. Ever. Period. It sickened him like nothing else ever could.

A pair of arms fell across his shoulders and back as the adept came closer in an effort to comfort him. However, his body reacted with a rage he hadn't known was present until just then. He flexed himself up to his full height, grabbed the Hunter by his waist and hurled him into the wall. Tarrant almost halted himself before making contact, but not quite. He still made an impressive crack as the wall smacked his backside, small pieces of masonry falling away from him and dust coating his shoulders.

"What the hell have you done to me, you vulking bastard?!" Damien yelled as he looked around for something, anything, to take this anger out on, his hands clenched tightly. "What is this?! What am I?! What. Did. You. DO?!" he hollered at the adept. And damn it felt good! Gerald had pushed off of the wall and was staring at him with that look of patience. The one a master gives a student who is about to learn a lesson. And so the warrior paused in his tirade, rage fading slowly, but fading all the same. And he saw.

He saw what he had ignored in his anger. Tarrant stood across the room from him now, standing where he had thrown him off to. Thrown him. _He_…had thrown…Tarrant! _Oh my God in Heaven…no…_ He had just matched strength with the most feared being on Erna. His previous conclusions fell away from him. No mere vampire could ever rival the strength of the Hunter. And so he was not to be a vampire then. Not to spend his nights searching out his next warm meal of liquid. No. Something darker. _Something_, he thought as he looked at Tarrant again standing as a mirror of his own soul now. _Evil. _

He fell to his knees and began to whisper prayers up to his God. The only being he thought could help him now. Would he even still hear the prayers of such a vile thing? He could only hope, and so he prostrated himself and continued, with tears streaming forth unabashed. Coherent thought no longer held a place in his mind so lost in his grief was he. And Tarrant took this opportunity to approach, carefully, and held a hand over the weeping man's head. "Sleep, my priest," he whispered, and the fae responded, surrounding the form of Damien and subduing his emotional turmoil. It took longer than expected, but eventually he was lost to the conscious realm once again.

Tarrant placed him back on the bedding and arranged him in a somewhat orderly fashion. Satisfied with his work, he sat at the side of the bed and stared off into the ether. This was going to be hard. On both of them. Damien would no longer be able to subsist on mortal food alone, and getting him past this crazed point was going to be trouble enough, not even considering convincing him to feed in a manner that will go counter to his every belief and tenet. He sighed, inwardly and outwardly. It was a sound of total exhaustion and loss. And from this sound, a reply came from the doorway, "So, ah, how did it go?"

Karril stood in the doorway, his well-fed form robed with the soft bath robes that he seemed to love so dearly. He motioned to Damien's form, as if Tarrant wouldn't have known of what he had spoken. And Tarrant smiled slightly, saying, "Ah, I could use some alternate conjecture here. Things didn't occur quite as I had thought they would. Do come in." And he stood to meet the Iezu. He actually was glad for the stout personage's company, even if it only served as a distraction. "So, what did you find out was happening to him? He isn't going crazy, or turning into a vampire or anything?" Karril asked as he entered. Of course he had been keeping tabs on them. The Hunter almost rolled his eyes at the very thought of the unobtrusive intrusions. He watched as Karril then approached the bed, recoiling as he came within feet of it. "What!" the demon exclaimed as the cold being exuded from the sleeping form assaulted him. "That feels…that… Gerald, that feels like _you_!" Tarrant looked on past the demon's alarmed and questioning eyes as he said, "Yes, there is that."


	13. Conjecture

Summary: Tarrant and Karril discuss the changes in Damien.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of C.S. Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Conjecture**

Karril looked at Tarrant in startled bewilderment, exclaiming, "How…how did…_this_… The implications, Gerald! Think what this could mean!" And glancing back at Damien, he said, "To _him_!" His face replicated perfectly the human emotion of sorrowful horror as the Iezu quickly comprehended what such a momentous, and sinister, transformation would mean to a man like Damien Vryce. Words alone could not convey the magnitude of self-hate and loathing that would erupt from the erstwhile ex-priest. Motioning to the slumbering form, the demon spoke again, asking, "Is he…?" He trailed off and the adept spoke up. "Asleep? Unconscious?" interjected Tarrant. Karril shook his head, "No. Safe. Is he _safe_?" Glancing at the dent in the stonework of the wall, and then at Gerald's dust covered shoulders, he finished, "From himself."

"Ah," sighed Tarrant. He sat back into an old leather armchair as if fatigued. "He cannot kill himself, if that is what you are inquiring after. At least, if the fae has modeled him after the patterning of my own transformation, as I suspect more and more, then that is true. When I was 'reborn' as I am now, the Unnamed worked into my essence and Contract the inability to end my own life through such mundane means as suicide. The only way to ever relieve myself of my earthly existence was to betray the Contract I had subscribed to. And since there is no Contract in place with Damien, it is my hope that this avenue of escape will be blocked to him from all angles."

Karril studied him a moment before commenting, "That is somewhat different than I had thought then. Someone could just as easily have run you through with a sword, though. And you would then die." Tarrant chopped a hand down through the air. "But by the hands of another," the adept corrected, "And not so _easily_ run through, Karril. Give me some credit. But yes, if I threw myself into battle, then it was likely I could be killed. And I am hoping this will not occur to Vryce with any speed. But then, he always was able to hide an agile mind behind that large frame of his. He may yet surprise us with his ingenuity." He said the last with a hand pulled down across his eyes, as if attempting to rub out the conjured image from his vision.

The demon sat on the floor across from the adept, formed an illusory chalice of wine, and tipped it toward the other man in a gesture of offering. "You know I will never accept, Karril," the weary adept whispered. Karril replied with a slight shrug and a smile, his graying hair framing his rounded features, "It's for old times' sake." He took a chaste sip and smiled in satisfaction. Then he changed the topic back to the point of interest.

"So what," Karril asked, gesturing again to Vryce, "happened? I have guesses, but I'm sure they're no better than what you've come up with on your own." Tarrant leaned forward, resting his forearms along the tops of his thighs where he sat. His golden brown hair fell forward with him, obscuring his features somewhat in the low lighting. "I have asked myself many times what is happening to him. It plagues me that I cannot answer it definitively. Do you know… _Can_ you know how much this hurts, Karril? I have never been this vulnerable either in life or this parody thereafter. I was initially pleased to see the changes taking place within him. So much could be fixed. So much would be made simpler if Vryce were to change with the Forest's will. With _my_ will." The last was whispered. Karril looked at him, begging explanation of the last statement but keeping his silence.

A sigh again from the adept. "When Damien began to first show signs of susceptibility…no, before even then, I warned him of the effects of the fae. Especially the fae permeating the Forest. But he was so, so, _him_. So stubborn and sure that his faith and will could conquer these intangible things." He stopped and smiled one of his almost-smiles. "And also, I don't think he wanted to leave me, for fear that I would revert, or become worse, than I ever was." Tarrant hung his head a bit, speaking more softly. "And because he loves me. And desires that closeness that others have." He looked up at the Iezu, eyes daring. "But I could not give that to him, Karril. Not as he was. It would only destroy him in the end when he discovered that I cannot change the ways of centuries." He looked away then, feeling emotion warring within himself. "That I do not _want_ to change. But for him."

"And so I sought to spare him some of that. He began to change subtly, almost imperceptibly. Gestures were off by minute measurements. Sentences held different cadences. The dark fae clung near to him as it never does with normal beings. Things a mortal would not notice. But I did. And I knew that the fae in the Forest would darken his aspect. I had no idea how radical it would be, but at the time, I had thought to shape it toward my purpose. And so I manipulated events a bit. I made several illusions that were meant to open his mind more to violence. However, the fae worked its own illusions upon him."

Tarrant pushed back in the chair, shifting uncomfortably. "It lent him the sight to foresee violent acts. This is something that fades with distance from the Forest, but within it, I can see violent intentions as if they are happening. It is almost like a prescience, but seen only seconds before the event would take place. And it only shows possibilities or people's wishes, not always what will actually occur. I know how to differentiate these, but Damien did not. And so he attacked the man in the courtyard who must have harbored some violent thoughts toward the Hunter. He also mentioned seeing and hearing his dead companion Senzei Reese, which I can only attribute to the manner of death. The Forest's fae attracts violent images, and Mer Reese certainly died in the grips of violent death. I believe the fae was pulling these things from deep within Damien's mind."

Karril rolled his hand in the air and then pointed back at the bed. "Yes, I can definitely see all that, but what about _this_ development. I mean, truly, he seems as you. No life. No death. But, _oh_, I sense power in there. And it's nothing pretty, Gerald." Feeling the stress building, Tarrant stood and began to circle the room as he spoke. "I have merely conjecture and guesswork there, my friend. But as I guess it, the fae here in the Forest began to pattern him this way after my dream-memories began to share between us. In essence, those memories become his, too. And what are we all, except our collective experiences?" He glanced at the warrior on the mattress, taking in the lack of life signs once again. "By taking in memories from myself, he has, in essence, absorbed part of my own soul. The Forest seeks to equilibrate the evil I have unintentionally placed inside him. And the fae has taken the easiest pathway for his transition into darkness, reforging him with a template of the Hunter. Oh, he won't end up as a copy of myself, but there will be enough of my essence within him that his former goodness might drown."

"As I said before, I had thought it would be a good thing for him to adjust somewhat to the reality of our situation. This thing we have between us will suffer and die without one of us adjusting his moral compass. And it will not be me, with my centuries of experience. And so it must be him. It's just too complicated otherwise, and he would only end up the worse for it." Tarrant stopped circling, looking at the ex-priest with a flicker of despair and lost hope on his countenance. There, and then gone. And replacing it was look of curiosity and shared sadness. Difficult to discern, but there all the same for those who knew how to look. "And now, I fear that this may destroy him in a worse way than I ever could have with my violent tendencies alone. I will try to sedate him for the next few days as the transformation settles." His eyes roamed over to the Iezu, who looked on solemnly as he finished with, "This will test his faith in ways no man should ever be asked."


	14. Somnolence

Summary: Gerald returns home. He has interesting "dreams."

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of C.S. Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Somnolence**

His road back to the keep was long and laden with heavy thoughts. A storm had swept in out of nowhere as he had exited the wooded area. Had he been of a mind to notice, he might have perceived the outlying nature of this storm as being unnatural as fish on land. Power crackled about its edges; and it seemed it rained only where he was traveling, as if it had been drawn to the violence of his thoughts… But he noticed none of this. And as he moved on, his thoughts became more cohesive and higher level. The storm dissipated soon after. Sodden boots squelched through the mud and water left in the wake of the short, yet brutal squall. The turbid liquid filled gaps and cracks in the road just as the darkness did the same within his heart. He had traveled on through it all. Soaked and cold, he pressed forward, beyond things as mundane as physical sensation. After all, he'd suffered worse deprivations than this a thousand times over at _their_ hands. Nature's fury was at least nonselective in its destruction. Theirs was an evil of a purposeful nature. And he returned to them now…but only for the present. The future remained open, unset. And he would see to it that freedom from their sadistic intentions would be his in the end, no matter the means.

The couple hour trek had been lengthened by the storm's violence, but he returned to Tarrant Keep eventually, to the notice and care of no one. It was late afternoon, almost evening. He entered his family's home cold, in every sense of the word. Water ran off of him onto the carpeting that was softer than the straw mat they had allotted him lately for sleeping. About a year ago, Harrod Tarrant had placed him in the care of Jasul, feeling that the older boy would do well to see how managing another's time was best handled. And so Jasul controlled his free time, his schooling, and even his rooming assignment. This had ended with Gerald sleeping in a kind of empty closet at the end of his former room's wing. He was given some straw with which to make his bedding and an old cast off blanket. Besides this, he had no other possessions. Gerald made no protestations at his treatment. It would do nothing other than anger his father that he wasn't man enough to handle rough situations, he was sure. And so he endured. And he told Jerilyn, as he had told her everything. No more…

He almost broke then, at the thought of her. But no. Jerilyn deserved better than simple tears over her murder. He would learn from her and honor her by never again opening himself to another. It only hurt them, and in reciprocation, himself. As he stood there on the entry carpet, soaking through the soft fabric, he noted within himself a feeling that hadn't been there before. Or perhaps, it had been, but only as a shadow, a whisper. He couldn't name it, but it was there nonetheless. And of one other thing he was sure. It was growing. Every time he swallowed the horrors handed him by his family, it grew. He had become quite proficient at drowning his anger only to hide it deep within himself. Time would see what this feeling turned out.

He turned toward the wing his father resided in during the days. He should still be present at this late daylight hour. The space was possessed of many different receiving rooms that were prepared and set out for just about any kind of delegation that could seek an audience, be they scholars, business-folk, or royalty. The apartments adjoining these rooms were lavish and furnished for maximum comfort in between meetings. It wouldn't do for the Neocount to go without his comforts while awaiting guests to arrive. Approaching the outer reaches, he heard strange noises issuing forth from behind the gilded sliding doors he looked upon. A kind of thudding, with scratching noises of cloth. He knew he wouldn't find a warm reception no matter when he presented himself as returned, so he didn't announce himself or follow any courtesies. He merely slid the door aside and passed through.

He took in several things at once when he fully entered. His father stood behind his mother with a flushed face that told of massive amounts of alcohol having been consumed. Trousers hung to his knees. His mother's skirts were pushed up over her head as she was bent forward over the furniture, but he would know that raven hair and snow pale skin anywhere. Even after several children, one could still see how small and delicate a beauty she had been in her youth. His father continued his invigorated pumping from behind and underneath her skirts, a handful of her hair twisted in his fist. Her face was barely visible, but it was clear that the hours of makeup and hair preparation had been unnecessary today as the myriad blushes and powders ran down her face in sweat and tears.

The Neocount finished with a final grunt and pushed her without ceremony the rest of the way over the armchair, where she tumbled over in a heap, panting and disheveled. Still not noticing Gerald, Harrod turned to his right and said to Simon, whom Gerald was now made aware of as well, "That's how you father a litter of sons, boy. Don't take 'em lady-like in the bed and romance them with wine and flowers; just bend the bitch over and use her for what she's made for!" And he laughed so hard at his own comment that he began to cough. Simon smiled, but did not laugh, although he also did not at all seem to feel out of place either.

Gerald stood wide eyed at the crude comportment. Surely he had known that his family was oddly behaved, but he had never figured that anyone other than he was used in such a manner. And instead of causing feelings of empathy and shared suffering for his mother, though, this only made him hate her the more. That she could suffer the same kind of abuse and yet took it out on him whenever time or opportunity permitted! There was almost nothing worse that had been done to him than this kind of betrayal. That someone so similarly maltreated should seek to pass on the abuse. It sickened him in new and inventive ways.

He did not have long to be thinking of this, though, for it was then that they noticed him, and he did well to keep his expression blank. Harrod saw him first, "Well, look here, Simon. A competitor!" He motioned sloppily for Gerald to approach. Gerald did not come any closer, but replied, confused and wanting nothing more than to retreat, "I am here to state my return to the keep, father. And I will go to my schoolwork now." He began to back out as Lady Argenine stood, her dark hair hanging in wild disarray around her shoulders, makeup forming stained trails down her cheeks. The look she shot at Gerald was a killing one, and she shoved him out of the way and into the wall as she made her escape from the room. The Neocount watched all of this through a drunken haze, then smiled and turned back to Simon. "Ah well, son, you'll have to wait another day for a second turn then. Or was it third? No matter. And Gerald," he said, swaying and now facing the teenage boy, "You should have a lesson or two in fathering sons as well. You may not have the physicality of a warrior, but I've heard that you excel in scholarship, and the Tarrant line should never be left wanting for those with knowledge to serve them. Don't worry, I'll find a use for your pathetic frame yet, boy."

Harrod continued to speak of the Tarrant line and its finest bred warriors as Simon nodded and smiled in agreement, and Gerald took the cue to sneak away. Harrod was facing Simon, who had gone over to fill up with more brandy. He dashed down the hallway and back to his little closet. He sat in the darkened space and attempted to clear his head of the disgusting images of his father and brother engaging together with his mother. Though he hated her deeply, it gave him no satisfaction to think of her virtual rape. He needed to be free of this place! He had only a little while yet before he would be sent to the Abbey, and he felt every minute acutely as he passed through the days as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. He wanted to be sure he in no way caused offense that would prevent him from leaving to his new chance at life. He could totally remake himself there, where no one knew him!

Daydreaming only lasted for so long before hunger crept in again. As he lived on the verge of near-starvation, it was a constant companion. He peeked out of his nook, and then hurried down the hallway to his first hiding place for such times as this. It was located in his mother's parlor. Well, one of them anyway. Her second one that she received unimportant guests in. Rarely used, it was perfect. None of the other boys had ever made it a habit to play in here when smaller, so he had been using it as a depository for a good many years. But as he entered it this day, something was different in the air. Holding still just a few feet through the door, he listened. And then heard a shifting sound, and a sniffle. Oh no…

Craning his neck to see around a silk hanging partition, he observed his mother lying reclined on a sofa, crying and in a terrible state to behold. Fear shot through him at the thought of her discovering his presence. Thoughts of nourishment dissipated. He would find no food or welcome here; and so he backed away slowly. Not quietly enough, though, for his foot caught on a corner of the rug and caused him to stumble. The crying stopped abruptly. He turned his head from where he had landed and saw Lady Argenine staring wide-eyed at him. And then those eyes narrowed in a scowl so like his own. "What are _you_ doing here, filth?" she whispered savagely. She pushed herself roughly to her feet, viciousness shining through her eyes. "Get out!" she yelled, but instead of withdrawing from him, she began coming toward him. He attempted to back away but tripped over the same piece of carpeting that had alerted her to his presence in the first place.

And at this sign of weakness, she was on him, beating him with her fists. And though he was in his fourteenth year, still he was underfed, undersized, and taken entirely in surprise by her ferocious manner. He threw his arms over his head, tucked, rolled, and tried to crawl away, but this served to only further enrage her. Her eyes darted to and fro, searching for a new way to commit violence. She palmed an ornate crystal statue of a serpent entwined about a cruciform figure. The meaning of which was lost in history, but those able to purchase such things thought it a novelty.

She struck out once, twice with it; leaving a bloody gash along his left cheekbone that burned as though it had been placed there by the Gods of old. Weeks later, when it finally healed, his fingers would trace the path where it used to reside, and he would feel again the bite of that serpent. His blood fell to the floor, patterning the stones and carpet alike with spotted crimson. Her delicate frame not being meant for such exertion, she finally dropped her chosen weapon, gritted her teeth, and said, "Get. Out. Of. My. Sight!" And counting himself lucky for it, Gerald fled his mother's rage with all the speed his gangly frame could muster. Thoughts of sustenance had quit him, and he returned to his closet in weary disbelief at the day's occurrences. Still, other than the blow to his cheek, which he bandaged quickly, he had come out relatively unscathed. Bruised for sure, but nothing major. And so, with nothing else for it, he decided he should sleep for an hour or so now, while he could, since he hadn't really rested since two nights before his meeting with Jerilyn. Jasul would probably be about later and have all manner of unpleasant duties to fill his evening time, ready to taunt and gloat over the murder done earlier.

And so he slept. But Jasul never came for him. And rare though it was, it did happen from time to time that the cruel older boy would find a more interesting target for his attention. Perhaps he hadn't learned of Gerald's return yet. Whatever the reason, when Gerald awoke, it was darkening into evening. Peeking out of his cubby, he could see the staff still bustling about. He closed the door. Better to wait another hour or two before venturing out again. He pulled out a book and attempted to create a globe of light. Pain shot through his head as he almost made contact with the earth fae. That damn fae-collar. He had forgotten its presence. Sighing at his new misfortune, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

His body apparently agreed with this choice as it gave in to the combined emotional and physical exhaustion of the day, and he was soon breathing deeply in the realm of dreams. The unopened book lay across his chest. He lay in repose like this for almost two hours, driving deeper and deeper into his subconscious mind as he slumbered. Outside, the pathways and keep walkways dimmed as one of the most dangerous time periods on Erna approached stealthily. People began moving indoors who hadn't already. And after another 20 minutes or so, the entire outer walls of the keep descended into true night. It was a time when all stayed inside and waited for the worst that the dark fae had to offer to pass them by. Tonight's darkness had been projected to last for almost an hour, and so most people had found activities to occupy their time as this dangerous occurrence passed them by.

Gerald's eyes snapped open as soon as the blackness covered the outside of the keep in its entirety. He gazed strangely at the ceiling and walls of his cramped compartment and shifted so as to stand. He did so awkwardly, as if still sleeping. He stared at the door latch for a moment, reaching out slowly to grasp it, his motions speeding up as he continued. He left his meager living space behind and returned to his mother's apportioned apartments. He could just hear her humming through the door, apparently having gotten over her own grief at having been the cause of his own.

He stood in the shadows outside of her doorway, almost as if he was lost. Then his eyes closed. Stillness reigned. Dust motes swirled in the ribbon of light leaking from under the door. It appeared slowly, almost undetectable, but as more and more coalesced it gathered together into form and substance. And the dark fae began to curl around him. This should have been strange to him since the collar he wore was supposed to prevent adepts from manipulating this almost magical organic substance, but it didn't cause him the least bit of worry. His trancelike state was complete, and so thoughts of strangeness, failure, or even of success, meant nothing to him. The fae continued to worm its way around and across him, affixing to him like a second skin for a moment before sinuously flowing off of him and under the door.

Minutes passed, and then Lady Argenine appeared, coming through the door as if on an important errand. She walked right past Gerald as though she herself were just as unaware of the world. His eyes slid slowly open as she passed his position, and he stepped out to follow her. But the shadows of the alcove clung to him, obscuring him from the view of others. And so he followed unseen, from corner to corner, shadow to shadow, as she passed out of the main entrance and into the courtyard, striding purposefully. No one was present in the main foyer to see her leave as everyone had retreated as far into the keep as possible for the passing of true night.

She left the large entryway doors ajar, and Gerald slid between them silent as a ghost. Only through his special adept's vision was he able to pierce the absolute gloom of true night. He could hear a voice. She seemed to be talking to herself, and as he drew closer, he confirmed that she was. She twirled in the night, proclaiming to herself, "Oh, isn't this springtime weather gorgeous!" She looked over in the direction of the fountain, "And the waters, how they sparkle in the sun." Gerald watched all of this with no interest or disinterest evident. But he did note a shadowy form taking root at the side of the fountain where Argenine was headed, and its malignant nature was immediately recognizable to him. He stepped a few paces closer as if to better examine this being brought forth from the night.

Lady Argenine sat daintily down on the edge of the fountain, within feet of the shadowy figure that was solidifying as each second passed. Human-like in appearance, it was tall and pale, but its features were still obscured as it fleshed out. Gerald drew closer still, his unconscious mind drawn to the potential violence held within this predator. There was no fear or caution in him at all, just a detached curiosity.

Finally, the creature completed its transition from the insubstantial to substantial. Gerald's mind distantly recognized it from his studies. _Vampire_, the word floated through and out of his mind, echoing down its lonely corridors. And as he looked on, the creature's interest in Lady Argenine became almost palpable as its entire focus seemed to shift to her. It approached from behind, and she ceased her endless chatter, suddenly going as senseless as Gerald seemed. She stared into space as the thing came behind her and slid its arms around her waist and shoulders. It tilted her neck almost gently to the side. And it paused as if sensing something.

Its eyes searched until they locked on Gerald, who remained numb to the goings on in front of him. It watched him for a moment, and then almost smiled as it lowered its mouth to her neckline, baring pointed canines as it did. They sank deep into her neck, causing just the slightest of gasps to issue forth from her. And then she went limp in its arms. After barely a few seconds, the thing's hunger turned ravenous and it tore her throat fully open, hungrily gulping at the now gushing liquid, the source of which emptied quickly indeed.

No remorse was shown, nor respect for the deceased. It simply dropped her where it had taken her, and then it fled into the night. Those eyes hung suspended in his mind for a while longer after it had gone, though. Gerald looked on at the bloodied scene before him. He was barely twenty paces from his mother's rapidly cooling form, wrapped in shadows and dreams, and all he did was turn away and return to the doors. He laid back down on his straw in the closet, eyes awake but unseeing. And outside, just a short while later, the utter blackness of true night lifted, and Erna returned to its semi-safe state. Gerald's eyes slid closed then, and he dreamed what passed for normal in his world.

He awakened to find himself much refreshed. He stretched and began to recall his dreams. Though they were fading rapidly, some pieces remained. Something to do with the fae…he had seen the fountain, and someone had been there. Who? No, not who, but what? How strange. He also thought he remembered his mother wearing lipstick that was too bright red a color against her pale skin. He had wished that she would just disappear, and she did. Just like that. He sighed. That would never happen. May as well get up and find out what this day's misery would be. And then he cocked his head to one side, feeling as if he was hearing a distant sound that was off-key from the usual bustle of the keep's morning system. And then the screams reached his ears….

E/N: I am so not happy with the way this chapter turned out, and I apologize for it if you end up feeling the same way, too. I have written and thrown away so many starts/stops of this single stupid chapter that I finally gave up, and this is the best I could come up with. Call it a combination of too many other responsibilities pressing down on me at the time, but I wanted to get another chapter out here, and this one was simply taking up too much time. I actually deleted probably 1500 words from this version as well because it just doesn't flow the way I want it to. Sigh. Whatever. On to the next piece!


	15. Slowly

Summary: Tarrant makes a discovery about Damien's unlife that is unwelcome…or is it?

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of C.S. Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Slowly**

Tarrant sat beside Damien as he had for the last few days watching his still form. It was unnerving seeing Vryce like this, even for him. Lifeless, unmoving, unbreathing. Not so very long ago, he would have quite enjoyed it, reveled in it even. Now, with regard to the myriad developments they had undergone, it was still a victory of a sort, albeit a bittersweet one. But how would he ever gain Vryce's trust and cooperation after this? How could he force his acceptance of this new reality? It wasn't exactly the fault of the Hunter after all. The fae had initiated the changes. Tarrant had merely seen no reason to halt them. If Vryce had been any less than he was, he would have been easily turned to the darkness, and this could be the beginning of a great partnership; and that was discounting their evolving feelings for each other. But, the ex-priest had never been that weak-minded or willed. And Tarrant wouldn't be half so attracted if this weren't the case. And so it was both a blessing and a curse that Damien was so, so…._himself_.

The adept sighed deeply and held his hand out over the ex-priest's chest. It hovered there for a moment, as if uncertain. And then he lowered it to the stationary muscles and slid his hand across the firm skin and onto the upper abdomen. So strange, to feel him like this. Was this how _he_ had always felt to the living? As far as he knew, there had never been another being like himself, and so there was nothing to base a comparison off of. He didn't often think of how his own body felt. To him, his unliving changes felt normal. But feeling Vryce like this brought a whole new level of understanding to just how much one changed when entering this unlife.

He watched as the dark fae swirled around the other man. Something was still changing. He felt it, though he didn't comprehend it fully. Why else would the fae remain interested in one who was not an adept or practicing sorcerer? And in this new Erna where the fae did not respond to humans as it once had, it made this interaction he was witnessing increasingly odd. It seemed that since the second Sacrifice, mere sorcerers and dabblers in the fae were now restricted from its use. It no longer responded to any excepting those born as adepts. And knowing this planet's history of adaptability, there would probably be fewer and fewer adepts born into future generations now that they were no longer necessary for human survival. A dying breed. The beliefs of the masses still held effect with the fae, however, as demonstrated by the increasing popularity of the Church of Unification. Without the comforting access to the fae, many were turning to the religion as a means of coping and seeking meaning again.

Truly, he should have felt at the pinnacle of his life. Happiness should know no bounds within his heart and soul upon seeing his finest creation achieve its ultimate goal. But as he sat there staring down at this man whom he had come to love, he almost balked at the price it may still cost him for this success. Waking Damien again was something he dreaded, especially after the initial reaction of violence he had displayed. But it would happen, and soon it would become necessary in order to feed him. If he waited too long, then Damien would suffer the effects of the change as _he_ had those centuries ago; animal-like, bestial, mindless almost in the pursuit of blood and suffering. He did not wish any of that upon Damien, much as it would have pleased him to witness it 3 years earlier. What a contrasting puzzle his world had become since the introduction of this man, he mused.

As he pondered this and other things, he remembered a conversation held with Karril the other night. He hadn't yet discerned an effective means of safely turning Vryce to more suit his tastes, but he had an as yet undeveloped beginning of a plan to take him there. "Are you sure about this?" Karril had asked. "Just promise to act when I need you. There needn't be any explanations of my reasoning," the adept had said coldly. Karril had smirked and replied, "Oh, I know exactly why you're thinking of this. I simply wished to know that you have thought about how many ways this is going to backfire when you pull it off."

Tarrant came out of his reverie with annoyance. How dare Karril assume that he knew better how to accomplish the subverting of others. Hadn't he proved through the centuries that the Hunter was a master at this very thing? Of course, those before had always already been inclined to the more dark side of human nature to begin with. And none of them had half of Damien's mettle. The cold under his fingertips brought him back to reality again. Cold, so like himself. "Hmmm…I wonder," he whispered as he stretched out his hand over Damien's face.

Tarrant closed his eyes and let his awareness sink into Damien's body. Though true healing had been denied him in his years as an entity of the Unnamed, he still had an agile mind and the experience of being an adept to assist him in accomplishing the standard Healer's trance and Melding to facilitate his exploration. _If the fae is modeling him after myself, then how far exactly will it persist with these changes?_ He searched through Damien's corporeal form, every cell and vessel examined for the specific change he was looking for. _The fae has such an affinity for him right now. It encircles him always nowdays._ He thought of this as he searched. _I remember…_ and he thought fiercely of when he had discovered his own affinity for the darker things; after Jerilyn had been murdered. He could recall the days after. The strange occurrences. The death of his mother. The way that, after the Core set, the dark fae seemed to always be surrounding him, following him, encircling him… _There!_

He had found what he searched for. It wasn't based in Damien's corporeal form, though. It was more attached to his life force, or rather, his _un_life force now. His spirit. It looked different from how it used to. Not in a bad way. And not in any way that drew particular attention to itself. No. It seemed almost…like something very familiar… It was as yet unfinished, and so Gerald felt as though he was viewing a painting only half completed. The picture was imperfect, and therefore, inconceivable. He pulled back into his own body, eyes remaining closed. He became introspective, perusing his own undead life force within. From a cursory inspection, there was not much to notice. But Gerald Tarrant was not one to give a _cursory_ inspection to anything he studied. And so he looked closer, and there it was. Shock had his eyes fly open to stare in wonder at the man beside him on the bed.

His mind was running in circles at his discovery. _How can this be? There has never been a case like this!_ His mind reeled at the implications and possibilities…and the danger… "If Senzei Reese were alive today…" he began. And then he laughed out loud. Not quite a mirthful sound, but kind of a panicked hiccup of an outburst. But he calmed himself soon enough. He said out loud, "Getting ahead of yourself aren't you? So sure of this? Hmm… Let's be sure…" And so he entered Vryce on an insubstantial level again.

He went straightaway to the source of his query. He observed for a minute or so, and then enacted a Possession. Vryce's eyes, which were his for now, opened to survey the room. It was disorienting seeing himself seated nearby, so he looked away. The far wall was lost in shadows, but there was a small table closer to them. Choosing an innocuous object on the table, he focused on it. Nothing happened for but a second…and then the lamp shattered. And so did his illusions about still having his adepthood over Vryce. He quickly fled the other man's body and slammed back into his own as a cold trickle of fear began to build somewhere in his heart. This man, this once mortal man, whom he loved, may actually have the ability to destroy him it seemed. Unless Vryce himself had been an adept, the Possession should have done nothing more than allow Tarrant to control the ex-priest's body. But Vryce wasn't an adept; at least, he hadn't been…but the shattered lamp across the room told another story. Possessions only allowed the Possessor to utilize those abilities which the Possessed had inherently. Therefore, adepts couldn't Work through a nongifted individual. And yet, Tarrant just had done that very thing…

The adept watched the fae play along the contours of Damien's face. _How long until I have to wake him?_ he wondered, trying to remember what it had been like for him all those years ago. He shuddered. Perhaps he should simply remove the sedation slowly, so that Vryce would still be sluggish as he awakened. Yes. That would give him time to explain a few things and hopefully calm the other man enough to get him under control. He looked at the lamp again, or what was left of it. Bring him out _very_ slowly, he corrected himself. Turning again to face Vryce, he braced himself and began letting the sedation Working slip away. Slowly…


	16. Shiver

Summary: PLEASE READ THIS- Some may flame me for doing this, but I have taken a part out of one of my previously written fics (my very first one actually) and rehashed it. Why? Because my very first fanfic was also an attempt to delve into Gerald's past. But I did it on a much smaller scale. This time around, I am trying to stay true to every detail I want conveyed, and I have put forth the events as I believe they would have happened. And this particular part is something I simply could not do without. It kind of sets the whole basis for why the Hunter is so set psychologically on performing his Hunts in the woods and on foot as a man. To rewrite it seemed kind of stupid because people will flame me if they're going to whether I rewrite it or just copy/paste it. I did modify and add to it a lot, so it's not a complete copy/paste job, but still, just know that if you're thinking you've seen this before, it's because you have. Sorry. It's just essential to the story I'm creating. I give myself full permission to use my own work as I see fit. In this chapter, Gerald has arrived at the Abbey as a 14 year old and begins his initiation process and training.

Disclaimer: Not even close to owning these characters of C.S. Friedman's. As usual, I simply seek to use them in my own poor fashion for my own amusement.

Warnings: M/M, emotional angst, rape (These warnings apply to the whole of the story as it shall continue. These things may or may not be present in one particular chapter or another.)

**Shiver**

Damien dreams: Gerald arrived at Abbey Sircluth not even one month following the events of that bloody morning. His mother's murder was passing strange to him. He felt no real emotion one way or the other. All he had was a vague recollection of his strange dreams leading up to the event. No one could explain why she had been outside during true night. And until now, no one had realized that the amulets of the nobles and wealthy could be failing. Or at least it appeared that way. She _had_ been wearing hers at the time. It was found beside her body, having been torn away. They were created as a protection against the more mundane aspects of the fae, though. And protected the wearer from sorcerous attacks utilizing the earth fae. Apparently, their guard against the dark fae was faltering.

But beyond his emotionlessness toward his mother's death, he felt the complete opposite upon his trip and arrival to the Abbey. His salvation, he felt, was at hand. Free of his family's debauchery and abuse, here he could remake himself entirely. He can learn as he has felt he always should. The monks of the Abbey worked hard, trained hard, and exhibited this in their vast knowledge and comprehension of many wide and varied topics. Some of the most popular theoretical studies originated from Sircluth. Even the king himself would visit there from time to time, such being the fame and renown of the library. Gerald's heart swelled to bursting despite the blackness that had followed him daily throughout his life. _Fourteen is not so old that I cannot still become a competent scholar_, he thought to himself. _And a competent adept sorcerer_, whispered through the far reaches of his mind. For truly, here he would be allowed to study whatever he wished, as long as he participated in the core courses and physical training. They valued knowledge for its own sake here and made no distinction of good and evil, proper and improper.

The cell he was given was sparse, but when compared to his broom closet it was grand. A real bed, though small, rested in one corner. A few paces away was a wobbly writing desk of indistinct construction. A table and lamp sat beside the door, and a small bookshelf occupied another corner. He couldn't wait to get started. Of course, since he had arrived so late this day, he had been sent straight to his room and would not begin until the morrow. Also, he thought worriedly, the first part of his training was to be physical. Three months of introductory martial training occupied the class schedule for every newcomer. From there, depending on the end goals of the student, the classes would either be scaled back to allow a more scholarly course of study, or they would be increased to that of a warrior's courses. Nevertheless, whichever path one chose, martial training would be a constant throughout the learning process. The monk brothers here believed a fit body led to a fit mind. And so Gerald would still be required to spend a daily allotment of time on physical pursuits no matter what. He didn't mind, though, because he truly welcomed the chance to learn how to defend himself. Though he worried that they would find nothing about his scrawny frame to train.

He awoke the next morning full of excitement and barely tasted the breakfast served in the mess hall. His guide, a dark-skinned fellow announced as Brother Droguir, brought him to the training grounds to begin soon afterwards. Surprised, he found himself nearly alone in the yard. There were but four other students to be seen. Brother Droguir noticed his puzzlement and said, "There have been fewer and fewer lads sent our way each year. And it is especially bad now that the Fae War is on. His Highness has most of the young folk fighting." Gerald nodded at this explanation. Being from a noble family, he had never been expected to join the military forces of the King's Own. Some of his brothers had done so at the command of his father, true, but they would not have had to go under normal circumstances.

His meeting with the Brother who was to be his teacher and mentor, a tall and burly man with a gruff seeming attitude, did not go well at all. This man, Brother Ranyak, seemed little inclined to make acquaintances. Instead, he told Gerald that he looked pathetic and then proceeded to run him through a series of trials that left Gerald breathless and trembling. An assessment of his skills at weaponry, agility, and endurance easily revealed his lack of genetically inherited strength after the day was almost done. Shadows stretched long across the training yard. He was told to take a short break afterwards. Gerald looked like nothing so much as a pale, scrawny teenager who sat on an overturned bucket, thoroughly disillusioned with himself because of his pitiful performance.

Brother Ranyak approached him after a while, saying, "We're not through yet, so don't get comfortable. You still have one more physical skill assessment to complete this day: Evasion." The look in the Brother's eyes was unreadable. The steady gaze bored into young Gerald and began to make him uncomfortable. Feeling utterly spent already, he asked what the next test required. "Why, we are going to assess your tactical evasion skills. And we can't do that here. The best terrain for this exercise lies just outside the monastery," the Brother replied, voice steady and curiously devoid of emotion on the last sentence. "The forest?" asked Gerald. The large man nodded impatiently and gestured toward the great entrance gates. "Yes, so get going. You've got 10 minutes to get your bearings and develop a plan before I head in after you," informed the Brother. "The clock starts…now."

Gerald trotted out of the main gate and entered the fringe of the forest within minutes, desperate not to fail tremendously in this last test_. _He observed his surroundings with an unpracticed eye._ Not too thick here, so not good for cover_, he thought as he headed deeper into the greenery. _Perhaps if I just head straight, I will be able to keep ahead of him._ Otherwise, he would have to hide, and that meant possibly being found if he wasn't good enough at concealing himself. Reviewing this day's performance, he decided not to try any more unfamiliar skills. He reached up and touched the collar at his neck, wishing he had access to the fae to assist him here. It would have been so easy then. He also wondered how long he was supposed to participate in this test. After 10 minutes of alternating walking and jogging, Gerald's reserve was spent, and he just walked. He was far too tired to do any more than that after having already completed more physical training in one day than he had ever before been forced to. _Just keep going_, he thought. Glancing at the sky, he noted it was almost twilight. _More difficult for him to see me at least. _Then, as he walked head first into a branch, he thought, _More difficult for me to see, too_.

Night fell, and still he trudged on. _I should probably turn around now, the test has to be considered over, right? _Turning around, he headed back in the general direction of the Abbey. Very soon, however, he realized that he had seen a certain rock formation on the forest floor before, and it wasn't very far in to the woods where he had seen it_. I've circled around!_ he thought, panicking. Then he soothed his frazzled nerves. No one had caught him yet, so he might have just been lucky enough to circle in the opposite direction of Brother Ranyak. He continued on. By his estimation, he should be about a 15 minute jog from the main gate. His spirits lifted. _At least I did well in this _one_ test!_

Then, he tripped, falling face first onto the forest's leaf covered grassy carpet_. Great. Some skilled warrior I am, _he thought to himself.But amidst his self-criticism, he realized that what he had tripped over was man-made. A wire! Looking fearfully all around, his fright filled mind couldn't make out any telling details in the dark. He lay there on his stomach for another few seconds just listening. Nothing. Sighing at himself and his imagination, he began to push up off of the half-decayed leaves and received a kick in his left side for his troubles. "Found you," Brother Ranyak whispered into Gerald's ear while crouching over him. Still half blinded by the pain in his kidney, Gerald felt disappointment well inside himself, but it quickly turned to fear as he felt his hands being bound. "What are you doing?!" he cried out. No answer from the older man. He repeated himself over and over with the same result of cold silence.

He was dragged over to a strange series of short posts sticking up out of the forest floor. The Brother stopped dragging him, made sure he was rolled all the way onto his belly, and then secured his wrists to the one of the short, grounded posts. Each leg was given its own post which left them spread perhaps two feet apart. Pleas going unanswered, Gerald remained silent for a while. Perhaps being left overnight in the forest was punishment for such poor performances as he had displayed today? The monks were known for their strict discipline and eccentric punishments. That's what it had to be! It was not unheard of for young men in training to have peculiar penalties, such as standing at attention for hours on end, not allowed to speak. The silent treatment must be related to this, too. His mind calmed somewhat when he came to these conclusions, and his breathing steadied.

To his consternation, though, the Brother then cut his shirt off. Pale skin that appeared luminescent in the moonlight was exposed to the night chill. _So I'm to freeze in punishment, too?_ he thought. But then rough hands grabbed the waist of his trousers, cut the belt, and yanked them down. _NO!_ he thought, and he heard himself screaming, pleading. But all went unanswered as his Brother _mentor_ fully stripped him. The feeling that followed afterward of a shrieking pain from being assaulted sexually by such a large man wasn't so much of a shock as it was a breaking of his hopes. He had come all this way to find nothing but the same treatment. The same abuse. After the first few minutes, Gerald's screams and pleas ceased. He stopped struggling and lay as a dead thing. No help was coming. No one ever came. Because no one cared. Ever. The tears ran down his face as he was rhythmically pushed face first into the dirt over and over.

Near what was probably midnight, Ranyak finally ceased his physical assaults. "You're lucky," he whispered to Gerald," I've had some others suffocate like this. Unfortunate in the extreme," he chuckled to himself, pushing Gerald's face into the dirt one more time. Gerald could barely process the words, so beaten and battered was his physical state, ebbing in and out of conscious thought. "You're broken in now, so don't fight it next time, and I won't have to tie you, pretty boy," the big man said as he began cutting the ropes that bound Gerald. After Brother Ranyak left, Gerald lay curled up on the ground sobbing to himself. He felt so dirty; so unclean! He ran his hands up and down his thin arms as if trying to slough off the night's tragedy. From one abuse to another. And here he had thought himself free of all this. His tears soaked the ground as he scrabbled over the dirt and weeds to pull on what was left of his clothing.

He sat on a stump after dressing while his despair leaked away into the night. Calm eventually returned in its wake. How could he have been so stupid? So naïve? His lot was seemingly cast into stone. Others controlled his life always. When had he ever seen different? But it wouldn't last forever. No. Not forever. And from this self-proclamation, the darkness returned, bringing with it anger, and a new kind of serenity. That of premeditated murder. Yes. He might not be able to accomplish it just yet, but he would have his revenge on that man. On the rest of his tormentors, too, if he got a chance. He would bide his time well, and strike when the opportunity presented itself. Simple. Gerald even managed a crooked smile as he imagined the asinine fool's blood running out of his body as he pushed a blade through his throat. It would be thick and hot as it ran over his hands. He might even taste a bit of it… He paused. The last thought had given him a shiver that wasn't at all born of revulsion.

E/N: So, sorry if you didn't like that I reused a bit of a previous fic of mine. But as I said in my summary, I believe these to be the events that would have taken place in Tarrant's life. And this one was too crucial to leave out as it shows the psychological imposition of hunting through a forest as a man. Thanks to those who don't hate me. I don't have any other pieces of mine I will be recycling, so fear not for that!


End file.
